In case of a crash
the insulin mobile
will come in a rush
to extinguish the sticky
situation of how to explain
why you fell into a coma
with no regard for your fellow
co-worker on Pier 17 who drops
a grape juicebox at the sight of you
glazed with a trickle of drool
naked as a light
bulb unscrewed
from the neck of a lamp
and head down you get limp yellow
sorry it was an accident is no consent
for the lifeless appetite
and hospital
socks.
Sheriff B.J. Franke is an MFA student in poetry at The New School.
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