Not an ounce of fat on this guy. No flesh,
keyboard teeth. He’s quintessential Mr. Bones.
You survived forty years shackled at the wrists.
You carry the secrets, don’t you, Mr. Bones?
They’re his bodyguards. Planet of the Apes,
Polar Bear. To the death they go for Mr. Bones.
His ribcage peeks through his vest. A hole
around his spinal cord. Torn pants, skin on bone.
Once you lorded over a cabinet drawer clan.
Now it’s only three, minus a few rubber bones.
I let my boy play with you in the tub. Just be
careful, I warn. They’re fragile. I’m weary in my bones.
What kind of boy chooses the Hunger Artist
as his superhero? You and me, Mr. Bones.