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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.