YO. Sexy. Where Have You Been All Week?

remorse

The air was calm as fried food
Lulling under a heat lamp.
A pinch of salt,
Beaten turtles
And cuisine
In a paper bag
Speckled with grease stains,
That was
Sunday.

Monday’s oversight
Beguiled the taste
Of Tuesday afternoon.

And the movement of Wednesday
Resembled a cashier’s wrist
Afflicted with carpal tunnel
From swiping credit cards
To sustain her life choices.

That could be her drug habit,
Or what alluded to
Some untenable version of pleasure
That sparkled at dusk
And smiled below
The moon’s crest.

The weekend gave what it had.
Two orgies.
Three grins.
A dozen eggs.
That homeless stop sign,
Who forgot their purpose
When a politician
Sped through
The ordinance,
Waving hello,
Kissing invisible babies.

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