Bed To The Bills

The next day the exact same nurse
Is standing with her back to me
At every last passing bus stop
Only this time, what looks like a small stack of bills
With bat wings, is hovering just beside her

They're bound together by a narrow wishbone
Beneath it rests a large bowl full
Of some indistinct fruit
Waxen looking still, atop a three quarter
Length Corinthian column

To the left is a rather fit 'Right' woman's left leg
Buried thigh deep in the hallowed and wood-chip
Topped bus stop grounds

The planted lady's leg looking clean shaven and hot
Sweat beading up about its calf in the black
Avenue amplified sun
An eye blue high heel jut in full bloom on its visible end

And so you get off to find two suits arguing silent
Before a double-parked and obviously unmarked cop car
The blown-up head flesh of two big business men
A-hover above them
A good foot or two of twine dangling from their tied off throats
Running down into their hollowed dress shirt collar mouths

You overhear them mutter something serious about
'The second hand emotion'
And then comes something like semi-poetic directions
"A ways down commerce then turn, dead straight into ashes"

And so you walk
Predicting all possible presents in ever to bits, and back
From the bed to the bills you see nothing
But pit within pit within pit, an undeniable feeding on you
And more this

A honey smothered hand
Gun all covered in ants
Trembles on a three quarter
Length Corinthian column