the 12th one chicken fried/missing friend

anticipate traveling.

leaving the house i felt,

at last, a rupture in summer’s

brutal and unkind saga.

dry mouth was fine,

but fuck this weather.

what color are the peacock

feathers on your end?

trailer park/office park.

feet-on-desk, phone-on-

shoulder.

“you can’t wear a watch

if you don’t have any arms.”

if only i had a pizza for

every day i didn’t call

walter back. his sister was

a slut, one of those girls

who would steal your toothpaste,

soap, and maybe a box of pasta

after you fell asleep. walt

never cared about his family.

i never cared about walt.

barring an emergency cell phone

tower maintenance shut down,

or a world wide high five marathon,

i think we should be ok if we leave now,

the restaurant is only a few blocks away.

the weather has finally turned around.

he was buried in her stilettos,

her dress, and her lipstick. she

didn’t mind, they were last year’s styles.

she had moved on.

amusement park/office park,

they were late for dinner

and couldn’t find the restaurant.