Clayton Couch

Phoning It In

Cuffed to the white crowd, asking when babies
come out, with my vodka tonic linked to bored
faces a decade removed from honest motion.

The plaything of gratification hoists bricks atop
bricks, cracked in the wall of identification cards,
and wind blows cold south so she can fake

meals and drug animal mores, such that marbles
cease to signify planets spinning on top of dark
wood. I carved initials craggy with fake birth

certitudes all over your billiard table complaint,
a coliseum paranoid with bruised dialogue.
Making eye contact, the movie of the week

is in love with you (purr) and swishing its tail.
Such an epistolary consumption, wide-eyed
with frustrated I'm-going-to-Disneyland heads,

joked into collusion with Michael Jackson's
Nation-of-Islam, five-step surgical dysentary.
You can obviously leave the cash in the grass

if you're afraid, but don't opine for equality
while scarfing down shrimp cocktail and char
done nay. We've barely scratched the lotto.

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