What thoughts might arrive so late
in these milligrams : you’ve nodded off
again, the dream of a less gentle treason
the only reason to even get out of bed.

Akin to pleasure, the whiff of something
wicked amid the caramel apples
& the cigarette butts. Headlights cut across
the tree line. This journey is precursor

for the rest of your life : up these hills,
down that embankment,
then three days spent blindfolded
& chewing Xanax like Tic Tacs

across the salt flats. Scorpio season
seems to mean cradling your porcelain horse
outside the conference center’s
VIP entrance. Around their table,

conversation dribbles
& nobody thought to bring towels
or even a mop. A fork stuck in you
doesn’t mean you’re done :

it’s just a blunder
once thought to butter you up. The knife slides.
An egg gags at its own texture. A grilled cheese
seeks to devour its own crust.

 

---