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.