We are going to be rich.
We are going to live out
the rest of our lives
without glass or wood.
The lawn is pecking
at the crows' feet.
A car fumes, and we load
our bodies in.
Gathered below a television
at a talky bar countertop,
this happening
carries beyond our reasoning.
We want the fight
to be about us. We want
to hit back with the bottle
from behind.
This is it, another
evening full of vice
in the bear room.
We have money to buy
things and a gun pressed
up against our heads.