Poem vs. Spam

The streets are awash
with chalk outlines, Poem
walks with care
for the invisible.

The commercial district
lands on his head, his server staggers.

Automoton is a structure
of feeling falsely secure
and shoves Poem
into the overdone store. Poem admits
the others, the lost,
line upon line of the interred. This space
haunts him, skews lines of vision.
He chews a few votive
labels, reads the ingredients,
hums a counter point tune but
he is meant to die here.

The store (afloat in the mouth
of the Automoton) stutters to
a halt. Poem lies
spread-eagle on the checkout counter.
He sings in a high falsetto:

"Take me, my dear dumb crawler
give me that golden drawl here.
Crown that fist and kiss me
shove stocks through me for free.
Spam my head full and clear
claw and fill me up my dear."

The total rings up in
plastic bags of inbox urgency. Poem
excuses himself, apologizes
to the other shoppers, the nervous
security guard,

and with the sound of broken glass and
ungrammatical sentences,
logs out.