finger trap 

i put the highway in a tupperware
to take it to my grandfather.
his eyes spin like wild tops 
& in his teeth he holds a snake.
i was baptized twice:
once in the broth pot
& once by him in the backyard kiddie pool.
the snake has a telephone
& is calling an angel to arrest us.
i take comfort in knowing
i'm descended from dishonor.
honor is overrated & always flows back
to police. instead i come from 
a costume jewelry necklace of escapes.
dominos in their natural habitat.
my grandfather died 
in what became my bedroom.
his ghost would play cards 
by himself. he doesn't need the highway
but i'm trying to say, "look i am
still alive." when you need evidence
to prove that, you might be
less alive than you think.
i get italian water ice & turn my skull
into a fingertrap: a self-capture where
mice arrive to beg for everything
you've got in your pockets. 
luckily, i don't have anything good.
i don't have heirlooms. i don't have
photo albums. i have stories 
& a cane. i have a mirror that 
when i peer into, i see a tunnel of faces.
you can back yourself into a burn pile
or you can say, "here is the highway."
his ghost eats it with a plastic fork 
then wipes his mouth on his sleeve.