Fork scrapes styrofoam,
a sound that grates my nerves. I’d
rather cook myself.
Takeout
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Fork scrapes styrofoam,
a sound that grates my nerves. I’d
rather cook myself.
Finding new homes through
Amazon. Not selling. I’m
aiding adoptions.
Off-list again, I
buy extras, blow the budget,
shop when I’m hungry.
With a ticket comes
hope, and since I’m ticketless,
I’m hopeless and lost.
Looking glass spray paint
fail. Dollar Tree junk still lacks
Pottery Barn charm.
Light breaks. I heed the
call to darkness, cup rich black
magic in my hands.
Short-term guests in my
fridge, pantry, cabinet — but just
until they are served.
Like a dorm room on
four wheels, it’s a place to get
drunk stoned laid changed sleep.
Ate bad stuff. Gained weight.
Hate myself. Still, I think, There’s
always tomorrow…