I’m eating the weekend air;

I’m not hungry for waffles,

but for attention,

specifically yours

in its salty vacillation.

 

I didn’t sleep a wink,

but came twice.

This is the price

you pay for poethood:

a naughtier sainthood.

 

From this certain state

of fatigue, I reach

milestones of psychic power.

I see you staring out of your

tropical window, requiring me

 

there. I’m not. Clearly.

In this futuristic society

all we care to do is take

photos so someone will see

and remember us as Wow.

 

Do you detest me

for using your body

like a love poem?

You with your philosophies.

Me with my purple pen. 

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