in the warehouse, cigarette
smoke sweat-drenched hours
of existence you need
to find the fruit hanging on
the balance of a day I crumple
balls of soft into paper
stones to throw vast arcs
into distant garbage cans
yelling Kobe! just to miss
an opportunity of rare self-
satisfaction in repetition
my mechanical hands must
make mistakes they are
unable to elsewhere

(originally published in COG Magazine, Spring 2019)