Click on. Telephase. They are holts on the end of a steering wheel. Worn, exposed, slightly useless. Good mornings on his palm crooked against his chest, taping intermittently. Her fingers like factory knives, cooking millions of times against the back of her knee. Angles, lines, arcs, gloryholes. 300 dead in the sea. Oil Spills. Tax Fraud. Medea. Attorney, president, rigged elections, messy electricians. Behind the counter they seem like a commercial: short, brief, tongue and cheek. Or maybe they are Sanskrit and I am increasingly decreasing in history. Back. Court systems. Stenography. Stenography. No, computers. Episodes of text worn as sweaters in pock marked patterns. My face gets scraped, no scrapped in a metal contraption. She seems so useless. Tall Latte. Where does she live probably in, triple short wet macchiato, probably, quad venti two pump mocha vanilla skim cappuccino, in a holistic camp or a cluttered closet. Pushed back somewhere in his mind. Closets close to resembling a yoked shirt, there is no room for family values or cereal. There is no family or milk here. I will never understand their lives or maybe it is them who will never understand

Please waste your small lives.
Around a table of drinks
Slipped down in Starbucks