The Plaque Polished Daily

The Plaque Polished Daily

The brass is a mirror for the man I’m meant to be
I’m scrubbing the tarnish with a frantic
mechanical energy
The chemical venom is a ghost in the back of my throat
A heavy-handed vapor on a black and woolly coat
My ancestor’s signature is a jagged
deep-cut scar
A silver-gilded lie within the center of the jar
I rub the rag until the letters start to burn and bleed
To satisfy the hunger of a cold and ancient greed
The house is a vault for the trophies of the dead
I’m piling up the honors while I’m starving in my head