It is noon in the sweat glands of the gorgeous
and the pheromones are doing their thing.
But we are hungover and have to work in an hour.
And you’re a tall drink of water because we’re so fucking thirsty,
as lonely and out of reach as a balloon beached on the ceiling.
Dear heart, tensored by spandex, uttering a saint’s lament,
shiny side of a dime in the corner of a pickpocket’s eye. Well then.
The boiler room has sprung a leak and it’s getting hot
in here. We could click the like button on you all day.