Damon Hubbs

Bottomless Brunch

she pulls on her ugliest tights
the ones with the splatters & drips 
she wears every Sunday for bottomless brunch

& mutters something 
about how I spend all my free time 
writing poetry

I don’t like the way free time & poetry 
sound rolling around together in her mouth 
but it’s Sunday & I don’t want to fight

so I keep at it 
as she waves & heads out for mimosas
or whatever it is they’re drinking these days 

later, after I finish a poem 
& she returns flushed with late morning cocktails
the tights are a little less ugly 

& her ass looks like a million bucks. 
I plunge into the bottomless brunch
like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. 

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