he comes home
from the deathly job
supporting other people’s high life
and parks his smoking heap
in the slum.
picks up his heart
from the humidor
by the door
as he walks in,
unzips his ribs,
sticks it back into its slot
without making sure
all the connections
are solid.
that’s the routine of late.
make it look good.
don’t even bother to see
if feels good, or even works.
Dark Matter 
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