sittin’ outside in
the sweet spot,
under the tree in
the parking lot;
the dumpster by this
joint smells like
chicken. and this is
living, counting coins on
a corner, trying to buy a tiny
piece of the power ball.
the first words out of her mouth
this morning were mother fucker.
they were not literal
her pelvis is locked up like a fort;
nothing to see here.
in order to get this flushed anymore
she has to walk in the night rain,
her head and feet so far apart
in love with a fantasy:
it sustains her like the whiskey
she needs to wash down her bread.
she can’t remember the first
words said, or the time be-
fore they met, before they parallel
parked their force-fed lives full
of love, war, birth, joy, death.