When you come to a fork in the road, you’ve reached the limit
of inhabited space. That goes for most points on the compass,
leastways true north. And it is true, the pavement that splits
the difference, offers you half its lean sandwich, sanderlings,
stink bugs. When you just can’t drive: offers you a pallet.
The register sticks. The swatter will not nearly vanquish its prey.
Bursts its lid in geyser spray, a jar of pickled pork rinds.
Eats its way through tin, the green chile salsa called verde.
Dies one afternoon, the rat who had nibbled too much cereal;
and, though his location is vague, you can smell him decay,
up through floorboards wafting. Light a candle then blow it out.
When a customer wrinkles his nose, just look the other way.
Grasshoppers pitch themselves against the wire front door.
Nothing in the cooler they desire. They don’t want flan or beer.