getting at the yak,
talking growing up
in the ghetto.
crushing hard mikes,
like college girls,
but with a Big L soundtrack,
such a sweet sweaty palm sing-a-long.
switching to other introductions,
such as a restaurant's life,
broken blinds and how much
we hate brunch.
in a suburban sea,
the wolf howls for me,
and sees the world similarly,
even after I escape this place.
he offers vodka,
but I decline because of time,
and I gotta drive,
weird to not feel anxiety here.
it's not often you meet an animal
with the same sharp teeth,
gnawing at this same position
just different mechanics.
little talk of love, reels of regret,
because midnight doesn't matter
just as jail stories aren't judged,
and work is tomorrow.
rare is the moment
of couch relief when
I don't look at my phone,
just hand a stolen plate to start.