The summer dumpster’s slow-cooked stench
hit before sinking in
realization the rip cord didn’t pull
roaring into our ending nerves.
Forbidden foods flashed
before our eyes
widened
– black donut holes in abandoned handbaskets
– effigies of Twinkies nodding no
whispering over
the triple bypass to hell
shimmering with mirage.
A blue pickup hooks up downtown
with a cute used
bloodless coupe.
History dies in its making
love.
While the shoot won’t open
we shoot the shit
as immortal
as forgotten:
the martyred manicurist
of King Midas
and Medusa’s stone-faced
optometrist.