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?
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?