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.
Horror Sleaze Trash 