Order reigns (or is that rains) in bites
and pieces of pie. This is apology number 3.
The one in which I release doves into the
interior of your car and watch them beak
against the windows. The one in which I
tell you lies smothered in cream filling and
feed it them to you in tiny nibbles from a
second-hand fork. I’m sorry, baby, I say
between bites. But the doves are really
just rats with wings, changing the radio
station with their feathered squawks.
One of us is talking. I count the squelches
in the static waves until the number
neons in my head, gaseous and vitriolic.
My refraction in your sunglasses makes
me look small and round and edible.
Which brings us back to ordering pies.
Cherry. Lemon Meringue. Coconut cream
because I forgot it was the other girl —
not you, the redhead with the freckled
poem across her nose — that licked pale
oil off the inside of my thigh.
The road has a shoulder. Stop the car
so I can cry on it.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written before my erotica class.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on nothing much.