Hooks empty. A shed of bent sheet metal.
The sun tweaks your brain’s stub, flicks it,
and a bylaw arm wrestles with a head full of splinters.
Given the chance to ignore the elbow
lifted from the table, most do.
We do what we think we need to.
Fingers printed with yellow ink, a fake tan
nicotine drew. A cigarette’s papery rope unravelled.
One headlight, weaving hand to mouth.
Smoke half, butt the other half out.