It Changes Nothing
She’ll have off ripe avocado
smashed on toast,
calls them out in the
queue, some slothful boast
about having to perch two
poached eggs on top;
break yolks. Rolls adjectives
around her tongue
and fanciful still she fancies
they fancy her young,
solid set, thick scarf
mad dash for window seats,
opens rubber jaws, thicker
lips, drools and eats.
Halfway across town and here’s
Dobson grappling
sheets, towels, sacking while
wild wind howling
around his ankles, unbuttons
cuffs and growling,
whipping his denims into
threads, fills his head
with oncoming storms, with
apocalyptic dread,
he’s offering her a lottery
for laundry, so she said,
shuffling her grey
coveralls in opposable directions,
rolls her eyes, staring grim at that darker reflection
and as his eyes offend her, she'll close her curtains.
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