The Lack manspreads. It fills its Tupperware in the buffet line, and it knows no one will
It’s paid dues in used tampons,
in discarded wifebeaters.                       Lack is laundromat rich.
Lack bought a street of rowhouses with bad credit.                       The food inside is magical in nature.
There are clouds that never cross those roofs.
The dogs of Lack have tongues that vent more than heat—they curse, they oral sex, they clap with stressful
sugar.            Only the gerund will due for their hunger.
Lack cooks for church religiously,
is a community resource.
Its fashions are ripe
and attainable                        but fast
to the garbage.
Its bills are too high, it has graves between its toes. Its children spread on the wind like a spider’s,
catching onto clothing and hairdos and windowsills.
They aren’t picky but talk greasy in the periphery.
Those portals will never again close right.
Lack, alone, is old,
sits facing one of its many furnaces.                             It has a shawl wrapped around,
It feeds the fabric to the flames. Smoke tentacles through the chimney,
tightens its finger around
an afternoon sky,
then, lets it go.