More poems. Like weeds. Not your favorite thing, but they convert CO2 to oxygen.

At Work 

he had a face like a fruit bat
and seemed to like me
everyone else too
even the assholes
but me more than the others
in our fast food stations
I was Mr. French Fry
he manned the discus pizzas
other pricks singed the burgers
the bat had a case of hots
too shitty
as I did not

 Long Lost 

what do I care
it leaves me all tire tracks and beer cans
the dull bing and rattle
we played pinball machines
drove cars more rust than metal
we shared disdain for diamonds
avoided validity
traveled like a mad man
only difference
we knew where we were
on Mars