- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Night Shift 3:57 AM
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twinkie burns, on the twist-tie
microwave brownouts. the wound
under the ribs, MMMMmmm..
cream filling, on the screen with
slurpy headaches and frozen
orange juice on the market. he
rolled over, leaving a snail trail
greasing his burger along the
linoleum checkers. just a little
further to the phone and the
empty
red
bits
of
plastic
scattered about the floor. more
convenient for kids than anything
in a convenient store. toppled
statuettes of eastern gods, and
incense still burning. incensed,
twelve gauge nightmares filling
blurred vision, salty tasting
swill like red bull, well not quite.
still gonna grow wings before the
phone crawls to hand. who’s
crawling to who? three sharp
clicks in the slurpy machine.
“911 emergencies?” sausages,
moldy, rotating, dripping on
hands, cringing from burning
skin, like mozzarella sticks.
“they robbed my store” he
wheezes like the carbonation
filters in the soda fountain.
gurgling red ketchup like
a stepped on hot-dog in the
back of the store.
