I'm listening to some white soul
on my front porch swing.
The seat is attached by
a sturdy metal loop.
There is some rust beneath.
Across the street Mrs. Pascale sits.
I'm sort of caught in-between a wave,
lifting my arm then lowering it quickly.
Not quite achieving eye contact just yet.
She's out here all day when it's nice.
If I remain patient I suspect we will screw.
A Talent for Legitimacy
Episodically craved by adolescents,
Prometheus displays his tats
behind The Dollar Store in Bonita.
The one with the plastic pillars.
Chained willingly to a picnic table,
he effuses in atmospheric cigarette smoke
shirtlessness his apparent esthetic.
Peers immersed in forsake-me-not hygiene
crouched in even more uncomfortable positions,
strain to catch a glimpse of his epithelial gland
visible through tiny filaments of foliage
like a conceptual umbrella or soluble shade tree.