Despite the time of day, night seems to be falling. America’s most famous serial killers howl like Siberian wolves. There’s nobody there who knows CPR, & it’s too hot to go for help. 

Plaid shirts, Levi’s, and hightop boots are
a fashion statement. You won’t find them
on the racks in Paris or Milan. They are the
uniform of the good old boys.

i.
Nine days I hung from the
boughs of great Yggdrasil;
limbs wrapped tightly ’round
my neck – a choked and dry
tongue scraping across lips
as I tried to speak with the taste
of ash and leaves in my mouth, as
I prayed to Odin, as the branches
clawed at taut skin and a swollen belly.

But the runes were silent.

Pale light and her face is not her face,
a mask, creased, painted cheeks, indifferent.
Her mouth rakes over sound like garden pebbles.

While tiny boxes of cereal and the Danish
under glass with tiny black tongs sit,
I drink the coffee air of the official morning
with pink Sweet and Low and blue Equal
sugar packets leaving a few crumbs on the table.

Crowds scream in horror outside. Car horns and whistles waft in through the window behind the warm air. He slowly shuffles down the last couple stairs toward the vending machine and drops the coins in. Ca-chunk! His shoulder is still sore from earlier but he pulls out the Coke and pops the top off.