The already dead have furtive eyes.
They work full-time jobs and overtime shifts
and do not earn full-time livings.
Their lives have unconditional predestinations
that they meet with furtive eyes, eyes
which are dry, tired, and red,
prepared to snipe from positions of envy
when they are bold enough to make
contact with yours. The already dead
have knotted bodies, potential energy
they will never release. They will never
feel the despondent tug of debilitating euphoria
when they hear an artist
like Mississippi John Hurt pluck
a guitar. They are drawn to glittering electronics —
televisions, interwebs — and their bodies
are flaccid deadweight. Their eyes
glint like headlights strapped
to an early morning rush hour trajectory —
Single file toward the pitched expanse of night.