So the weekend fits
into a glove compartment, then what?
You seek with your fingers,
dipping deep into the gristle
of post-traumatic stress.
And at best, it’s a mess to be mistook
for a careful progression.
Taints are in session,
mildewed gum droppers and spoons.
This is precisely how terrorism works.
You object to the quirks of living
with modernist tendencies, but
those objections are void
and make you sound like a twat
when they leap headlong from your mouth
and into the public feeding grounds.
You’ve no one to blame but your genes.
Two scenic routes later,
and you’re a hater in the making,
making rounds in the corner
of some nose dive bar
and making eyes at someone
who’s never going to
let you take her home.