Pollock and Water

The sliding doors rumbled shut behind me

and the parking lot lights hummed a low, sick blue.

I tore the plastic with my teeth

until the vacuum seal gave way to something new.

It isn't crab. It's just white fish and starch,

pressed into cylinders and dyed a chemical red.

I peeled the skin in long, rubbery strips

while the cat by the dumpster waited to be fed.

It tastes like salt and a cold, deep ocean floor

where things don't have names, only weights.

I finished the pack and wiped my hands on my jeans,

watching the store lock up its iron gates.