Snails frozen stoic in journeys
across crusted kitchen tiles.
Squadges that were once slugs
splotch empty cupboard shelves.
A fade-y kid with a salt shaker
will be forever disappointed.
Dead already. He can’t kill.
Someone got to ’em first.
But the spoon up his sleeve
can still smash in the snails,
cave shells to broken homes.
There is no one left anymore
to tell him it’s long past bedtime.
His breath never fogs the window.