The pickup barely slows, droops an unwrapped burrito out the window that same blasted Sonora tan as Mitch’s coveralls, and after just four cold swallows he’s stuck with one bite—beef?— that won’t chew through, so, hours later, kneeling outside the tent, he dedicates the grinding, a sore-jaw prayer, to that ER nurse who patched up his gut but wouldn’t meet his eyes, that cop who didn’t book him but pulled over Get the fuck out far past where the busses run, and the moon and the breeze and everything that seems to labor so hard to not feed him, but also to not just let him let go, this damned life-force that keeps him chewing towards another dawn’s bitten-tongue puzzlement: What’s in it for whatever it is inside that won’t just let him spit the meat out already, just let him drop and paw the dirt over himself, but, instead, insists that he swallow and hurt and keep his name?
Pete Miller is the author of the chapbook Born Soap (H_NGM_N). A graduate of Arizona State University’s MFA program, he lives in Omaha, Nebraska where he works in homeless services. He co-edits the online poetry journal A Dozen Nothing.
