Fellow urbanite, how could your race
survive—convinced I can’t see you this close,
hunched next to our back porch, your grinning face
hidden behind a bag of Ranch Doritos.
In our next door neighbors’ headlights, your eyes shine
Heineken green, and you keep eating, heedless.
You forage in the cracks of our lives and dine
on our debris, jaws crammed with infected needles.
By day you play dead in a dumpster—poke
you with a stick, your whole being explodes.
Primordially stupid, tireless joke,
you waddle down the shoulders of our roads,
loot gardens, lie in our bed of impatiens,
finding the hidden gaps in our foundations.