One thought on “Open 5

  1. LUNCH POEM #171
    lunch clicks by,
    a papaya and
    a toothpick in
    my pocket signal
    poems like everything,
    flipping 12:40 in the
    flipping afternoon,
    my torso ribs sore from
    that hum-colored
    pocket nazi futon
    Jamie sold me,
    fucked upon a thousand
    times but I can’t seem
    to tear myself away from it,
    why *is* that?

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