Slipped up on the final hurdle, you fell
face-flat and knickers in a twist. Blame the
Brooklynite, blame the bruises, the
vials and tinctures which kept the
hamster wheel turning
when the shutters drew closed.
Sixteen puddles of retch on the road
marked the tumble into May, and he said
“maybe I'm done with this, maybe
we'd be better relocating to
the downy duvet and the real world
at last.” Maybe, but we are
outlaws and trollops and dolly-mixture
princesses, and we have no heave for
quitting. Exfoliate this filth from your
crevices and wash the weekend away.
You are fine. It was worth it.
And in twenty minutes is the train
to the next thing.