It smells of cigarettes and 12 year old regrets.
Matted shagged rugs with creeping, crawling bugs.
There’s shouting from the back.

Humming coming from a ***** metal box.
A shrill announcement that it's time to get our fill.
We race back while trying not to spill.  

In my bowl is the same hard heat of imitated meat.
I run my finger across the couch. A halo of polyester,
where too long an ember was permitted to fester.

My friend had dawned new clothes,
a flashy new skin, but a month’s gone by.
Holes now show what she’s hidden.

Uncertain, she’ll dawn a new curtain.
Whether a lack of communication or a thoughtful hesitation
to force another her burden.