Here it is, the last one
I'll write tonight.
There are only
so many love letters
someone can write in a day.
So it is-- My love
is tired and filthy and
thinks it might
have head lice.
Piss cups and broken toys.
"Yeah, this is my kind of
place." I dragged over
an old armchair. I poured
some of my Nescafe over it.
He awoke and drank the rest.
I marveled at the art
of cigarette burns.
My love, my love,
we are free.
My love, won't you
please take a shower?
No comments:
Post a Comment