You’re an illegibly masculine script,

picked-off the so-you’re-drunk

and-have-given-this-some-thought wall

of a tattoo shop; your bold gothic

fading now on the sunburnt left arm

that begins with a cigarette

and is attended by

some heavy-set bro in a Jeep,

sporting Oakleys and wearing a ball-cap

backwards, winded from breathing.


You’re the week-end’s sweltering heat,

rising mid-afternoon from concrete;

and the shade beneath SUVs

idling in lots,

where sullen teenagers text

from the passenger seats

as their parents shop–

oh my god!

unable to wait til they’re older;

you’re that. The good times.


Also the exclusive party

where rich socialites might

have too much to drink

and lock eyes with an uncanny likeness

across a room, like Narcissus,

save you don’t know who that is,

or understand the gaffe,

and the party is really an ad

for a drink you’ll have to have;


That; you’re all of that,

and less.


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