Non-Erotic PoetrySunday BrunchI am late
have to pump my own gas,
(which I hate)
some spills
on my new Prada pumps.
Meet you
smelling
like an oil-spill.
You try not to sniff
but I see your nostrils
twitching.
My hair is a mess
I know
still damp from
the shower and
I wonder
if you imagine me
washing it with
gasoline.
Brunch comes.
Disappears,
we never stop
talking.
As we part
you kiss me saying.
"So, what's with the
industrial perfume?"
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