Enclosure, steam-heated; a trial casket.

You are here; your name on a postal box;

entrance into another place like vapor.

No one knows you. No one speaks to you.

All of their cocks stare down their pant legs

at the ground. Their cunts are blind. They

barely let you through the check-out line.

Have a nice day. Plastic or paper?

[...]

(by Ruth Stone)