AT THE BINS

At the bins the witch doctor 
offers me a peanut butter cup.

If this were my true universe

I would gobble the golden gift,

twist the foil to a halo,

and feed it to the gutter altar. 

Emboldened reciprocity. 

Instead, I flee the sifter’s sanctuary

for other robot rituals - 

driving: like buying:

up, down, park, purchase.  

Insert chip now.

Back to my sturdy, sterile

giftless zone,

to wash my hands

of any chance.