I try not to write about work. I like to keep my lives separate.
It's 6 o'clock and the gate is rising
the sidewalk wet from hosing a box
of pastries melting cardboard
On the front of the Times there's
a war happening still Vonnegut
died and his calm face stares up at
bombings above his head
Ducking in and out the whir of blades
in a rotary bean box the sudden
coffee smell a vomit smell
Death always gets the front pages
look around for an Anna Nicole
while you drink and eat look at it
his book sales jumped 10 fold.