Parsimonious Addicts

She wasn't there. The naked bulbs. Coyotes of skin hunting. The sick. The weak. Already dead. She wasn't unconscious when you put her into that coffin. Easy locks. And empty ovens. Calling the absent baker names.

I gave them what I could. Tomorrow. Like icicles. Melting. Ready to stab. As the frozen in undone. The winter in bursts. The device on high. And still we're here. The past takes us back, but the future is ambivalent. Cold soup. Heavy bowls. As she waits for the meat to cook.

The fragility of flesh. obvious in every meal. Hunger. Consumption. Just another addiction. Cracked plates. Useless pots. Still.

She dips the crayon into the flame. Daring the color to escape. Still. We always find a way to feed. The witch. Right before we shove her into the oven.

Taste the house made of candy. Count backwards. To determine the cost of the sugar.

Good men. Well, I wish I'd known some. But bad men are what entertain us.