He has a large refrigerator
full of pickle-me cucumbers
and baby-me carrots.

He likes to take the bus,
and everyone can see that he thinks too much—
he’s blue collar, but sharp,
aesthetically confused, disjunctive.

Hell is a rural father,
a parvenue mother,
and a butter knife full of contempt.

“Don’t give up your seat on the train,
motherfucker, write a letter!”
(The mayor’s staff all know him by name.)

“They can laugh all they want,”
he says to himself.
(Alone, behind faded brown curtains.)
“I have a kitchen full of mason jars
and a damn good recipe.”