Getting up to watch the sky
in the overcast forgotten name
of the city park where weekends
have their setting.

She wears as little as she can
working on the perfect picture
in the sun beam streaming down
for her to be in.

It’s okay to carve your name
into apartment flaking frames
around the doors that let
the losers through to see you.

Empty soda cans go blank,
from the light that eats their paint,
and we drink from them
to melt our minds like Styrofoam.

Unbroken dogs bark at the walls
as a way to keep things raw,
and far away from sea planes crashing
in catastrophe.

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