These are the demons who hide beneath your dryer
the lint and leaves and dust and wrappers of old candy
and bus tickets torn hastily after sad goodbyes
and to-do lists from beyond the grave
and guitar picks
and receipts from that dinner when you made her cry
nickles never spent and dimes lost and pennies dropped like thoughts on the crosstown bus
squirm through the oven vent
poke your nose in the neighbor's porridge.
Get a hard on for the poodle in her skirt
what part of you is not on fire?
Our spiritual debt is spiraling out of control.
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