Brittle Little Man

Brittle Little Man,
tucked into the Driver’s seat,
let me ask you this:

If and when you die,
what awaits the Super’s son
underneath your bed?

Where will you have worn
some impressive groove with your
shabby little shoes?

Who will be impressed
when they hear that you lived on
coffee and gumdrops?

Have you thought about
what will happen to your bones
when the human flesh

you bravely denied,
tired out from your neglect,
finally falls off?

Will your little soul
feel secure in paradise
without a ribcage -

knowing that your frail
emaciated skeleton
now lies underneath

Much more fertile soil
than you’d ever tolerate
in your fingernails?