“a portrait of cave fires on walls as the first sitcom in syndication.”
the naked, midnight diners
are at it again, posed
in the windows
like an advent calendar
across from me. totems
of unwashed dishes
pile in the sink; heat
from hog grease peels
their wallpaper back.
a nightmare
of human real estate.
scalloped potatoes.
shrimp cocktails.
cheeto bags /n chicken-
fried steaks – every night
eating
vast servings in silence
sitting naked in generic, metal chairs.
they have never noticed i am here.
i have been watching them in darkness
since the utilities were turned off.
i ask myself
when will she give it up –
beat his head-in w/ a frying pan,
blow her brains in the tuna casserole
out of grief.
because i am a romantic
i can imagine it:
brain spurs stippling
cheap, yellow tile,
bodies
decomposing to shadow,
leaving an outline
like a child’s drawing
on the ceiling of the apartment below them,
undiscovered, for weeks,
until the neighbor is fucking his wife
on the living room floor, witness
to this new constellation above him.
i am envious to be there –
not so much w/ the wife
on the living room floor
but as a guest this time,
on the couch, maybe
watching the super bowl,
astonished by something, anything
i look into.
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