Each a wingwrapped carapace
unboxed and away
or burned in soft scrolls through the dustlight
and yellow-rested on the walls.
Out cold with a cloud case.
Saltines and Whiskey on the sidewalk.
“Hey, bossman – lemme hold a dollar!”
“You got an extra cigarette?”
Crackle brown chitin cuts through the paper,
sheds the torn cuticle,
and one says to the other,
“One day you’re gonna get sick of eating my head.”