You could be this mother fucker
–I think to myself–
eating his ketchup chips,
sagging like a brown banana
slipping from the chair
in stained and dirty track suit.
You could be that mother fucker
and his no name bag,
of no name chips
stuffed inside
his acidic yellow
No Frills sac.
You could be that mother fucker I think.
Sour cream
and onion.
Chin crumbs,
and another day,
wasted;
instead of hiding your decay,
your pain and your fear,
you could be eating it
on the train.
