Wars of One’s Own
Stealing manhole covers when the cruiser
pulled up, calling my name, like a nurse’s
aid. They clubbed me good and I thought
I saw a doctor. The cell wasn’t the kind
that makes photosynthesis but there were
some real fruits in there. I slept like a stone
growing another stone out of its head.
Joan of Arc wouldn’t put up with this shit.
But they had her on their microfilm,
too, that’s why she shaved her head and took
off to old Mexico. Boy, the banditos
will never see that coming. I tried
her a few times, enough to tire of the taste
of blood in my mouth. After that she taught
me to sell scraps and scavenge in the recesses
of the city’s guts. She said: Look where they don’t
and take what you need.