by Samuel Cole
I bring a Wednesday slump
to the Dunn Bros. caffeine
chase on 26th Street, order a
hot caramel latte with extra
whipped cream. Extra hot. Extra shot.
Tables infused with eye-candy hunks who
prattle alongside an automaton-bean-
crunch-machine that’s always turned on.
It’s Lavender days, a mag for us
gays, The Wedding Issue, page 34—
Johnnie and Trent united at last as
equal and blast—lucky-ass fags—
page 35 and 36 elevate daydreams
to heartstrings, though I am in doubt.
Page 37 drags me to the
depth of two bowties
—I see you gave him your name—
11 photographs by Jenny Inc!
4 lips kissing beneath my willow tree.
3 orchid bundles centering my picnic table.
2 matching rings slicing as 1 my Pink
Champagne cake from The Salty Tart.
Faces I once dreamt were smiling for us.
Piled on gifts tied with unified ribbons
and bows keeps me from looking away.
To disengage. To get on, or off, at the end.
published 21 September 2016