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ISSUE:  Fall 2018


After pulling a score from the dumpster 
behind Krogers I stroll through 
sliding doors with egg-caked hands. 
The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan 
the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint 
versions of organs she cuts out 
of men. The dented cans of black beans, 
undented, would have cost me 
ten bucks. The unexpired cartons of cream: 
another twenty. I smile at the math. 
For the dark roast alone I’d have forked over 
forty-seven. For eight uncracked eggs 
out of a dozen: about a buck-eleven. 
Might as well be money I found.
Might as well be money I made. 
By the time I get to the frozen foods 
I’m up two hundred. Markdown meats 
and I’m up three. In the bathroom 
I lock the door behind me and twist 
on the tap. As the yellow crust peels 
off my hands the mirror clouds over 
with steam. I finger the total 
where my face used to be.



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