Food bar.
We bust a gut.
Now, burping.
Wal-Mart.
She tweaks a curler.
Bra strap falls.
Reclinin' cheer.
My wife gets up...
Mine. All mine.
Garbage.
Thet shed next door,
so handy...
Moths
have left ther guts
on my winder.
June wedding ~
for a bride
divorced in May...
Wading in trash,
my feet caress
something squooshy.
New Year's chips
now grown stale
on wilting plates.
Carpet...
Old chips crunch
beneath my feet.
Paper horns,
now silent ~
lie on the floor.
January third,
sipping stale beer;
my ears ring.
We huddle
in the blue warmth
of our big TV.
There, a dried bit
of broken wishbone
from Christmas.
