I’m sitting in a dingy room,

with a woman I don’t love

eating take-away pizza

and I want to tell the world

that she knows I hate anchovies.
She tells me that all writers

are losers wearing their hearts

on their sleeves and how proud

she is of her son who’s in jail

for murder how he’s going down

swinging and then she squats on the floor,

pisses into a green Tupperware container

serial number 387. JJ KK M.O.P. 382.
I look around the room and see

second hand feathers on the bed,

red plastic roses with blue stems,

and shining in the moonlight

one gold and black vibrator,

serial number F.A.D. 8564.006

And I want to tell the world

that the following morning

I got the hell out of her room.