drinking and driving
to pick up Mary at a Shell Station;
this canned sangria is grape flavored
and gross.
may your mayday day
find this poem
and make you jealous,
because I am gonna
fuck Mary rotten.
her place
or her friend's place,
who is out of town;
the basement,
unfinished, so I finish.
later is ladder and latter,
climbing up tampon strings,
followed by soft jokes
and hard tacos.
my thumb is cut
from running,
and bugs are out,
like they know summer is over;
we smoke weed, feign smiles,
and text other people more interesting.