pictures of fake plants
and plastics cups with cheetohs inside.
Yells in a drawl
masking sardonic delight.
Captures something sullen inside me
and slips in under my blankets at night.

Wonders at charms left behind after parents paltry
insecurity of status held them in duress
to purchase it from momentary vendors
in, completely on the joke.

The joke, being the only source of escape.
Just happened to have a glorious *****
underneath in an isolated moment
of soothing promise
he gorges himself on a feast of slip dresses
and hairy knuckles wringing with their own precipitate.

Emptiness, used to live under my bed.
Now serves the safety in my
head.