Over the moon, to start with. Now
over the ghastly spoiled milk
over the howling bitter storms
over nothing. But over you.
I sit, bleakly cozy in swollen pride behind
this broken wooden desk, hooking no eye contact
wearing my lacy red mask. Form fitting so you
can’t see the whites of my foul mouth fully screaming.
Someone’s graffitied the pillar in the parking
lot. There’s goat pornography in white, letters etched
in hot pink. I really couldn’t give a damn. It
takes the most to make the most. Don’t worry, girlie:
it really does
take this damn long.