Hour of God on a Friday

Hour of God on a Friday.
My body cannot release you.
Vincent says, "Some fucks are like empty calories."
Vincent never tells me what to do.
 
Everyone wants
to tell you
how hard
writing is.
 
But sentences
that start
with Everyone
are easy.
 
I also like
to talk about
my bunions.
 
Robbie always hated poetry,
going to bed,
and mornings.
 
I always hated science fiction,
formatting,
and catching the bus.
 
Toddlers we knew
wrote tributes to the moon.
"Moon up!" called the twins.
"Lune, lune," chanted Isaac.
 
Is the moon an official
stage of development?
Like seagulls and bulldozers,
learning to share,
and apple juice.
 
A full moon began
our beautiful delusions.
I menstruated twice in three weeks.
 
We carried on the myth
by talking like the two year olds.
 
Every language has its expiration date.
 
At this point it's hard
not to think about yogurt.
 
That's one of the reasons
I struggle to move on.
 
Because every time I
 see yogurt,
I think of you.

Yogurt,
and avocadoes.
I tend to forget to take off the stickers.
You kept having to remind me.
 
Together, we learned
to store avocadoes
in paper bags.
 
Sentences containing
avocadoes
are also very easy.
 
Almost every time
I see citrus
somewhere in
Vincent's office.
 
He might get the flu,
or a death in the family,
or a cold sore.

 

The End.
 

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