wasted words slur together
like an emotional support slut
who runs out of Kleenex
and lets you wipe your
snotty, makeup-streaked
tear stains
on her party dress, never presenting
the dry cleaning bill.
Careful, those stains are a record
of the blame thrown around
like buy one-get one
half-off
coupons. The road
doesn’t need any festoons of festivity—
the potholes don’t even understand
their emptiness. When it rains,
they think they’re lakes, wonder why
no one skis on them.
Where are the goddamn boats?
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing!
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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