The bowling alley lights fuzz away
into yellowed wavering holograms, 
bad stars burned lazily into the ceiling.
She strikes out again, snuffs them all 
like the cigarettes she coughs up
parading under the overhang.

In McDonalds everyone assembles,
pretends to be forgotten constellations.
But I’m wearing someone else’s rings,
sleeping open-eyed on someone else’s 
bed of nails, hiding my bags beneath
and pretending they’re not there.