she finished her poptart
and two cigarettes before we
made it to the food truck.
after a short visit to
loading dock of the post office,
a single u-turn, and atm,
we parked behind it,
waited for our names to be called.
we pour hot sauce and talk about
expected digestion sitting
in the red zone.

she reassures me of where i am rooted now.

this long transformation of thought
consists of a lot of silence.
my baby brother made me proud
when a certain action matched
a certain promise.

this space between us,
spoken to drunken ears,
rested on facts tainted
by useless emotions.

pleasure meant running away
from any further development.

we made a case out
of clay from fragmented antiques.
its worth shattering
at the acquisition of disillusionment.

so to deal
we killed zombies
over greasy pizza and cold whiskey.

"um... i think the dog ran away...