they're all the same
they’re all the same
those few seconds
you count down
before you get
out of bed
or
jump off a bridge.
they’re all the same
those few seconds
you count down
before you get
out of bed
or
jump off a bridge.
I’d like to get a tattoo
across my chest
that says:
Bound in front of
the mirror trying on
dresses,
and dresses on top of those,
as if you hadn’t
gotten it right
naked.
Her legs were old,
and like a stack of golf-balls:
one on top of the next,
on top of the other,
tied together
with tiffany veins.
I watched
as she waited patiently
for three-quarters
of a pound
of macaroni salad,
trying not to let her knees
roll off
her shins.
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