Beneath a sweat-stained couch there's shame, there's spare change.
Above is cocoa butter, tangled between
their legs. A love touched tongue and thigh, and Mom's chain
of gold and something better: a cross's gleam.

When wont I stare. Waists unburdened by jean lines.
Some spare change rattles in the pockets of mine.
Biting my tongue: my canker-sore-cheek teeth grind.
Knuckles popping to match sounds of supine spines.