Out the Frame You Traveled.

She got out of bed teary eyed. Depressed and hung-over.
Her eyes locked onto my warm, dehydrated body. A missile
launch of pain, dejection, and Margaret Atwood. My
armpits drench cotton. The smell of last night.

I was mostly responsible for an innocence and purity annihilation. Terrible confusion,
you had to end. Disconnected the umbilical cord and headed by to
your womb in the country. Eat at a golf course. Stare at the river.

Out the frame you traveled. I didn’t even have my glasses on.
“That’s the shit that makes living fun.”
A loaded old man with denim cut-offs and a tie-dyed tank top said.
We were drinking at the sanitation station.
“It can’t get any better than that,” he said.
My breath smelled like baboon knuckles.
My heart sank to my left foot.