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Can you run to the ATM? I’m on my way.

Can you get me $30? $70? $14?

I need it now.

You’re a hot bag of octopus,

you corpulent baboon.

Howl your groin to the moon.

Think about her lips, hips, etc.

You ripped them up, didn’t you?

Her tiny waist, gone. You did that.

Pissed your territory. Shat your bed.
She says it doesn’t matter, but that’s what she says

when it matters very much.

It keeps popping back up

like the server network failed

or the format isn’t supported.

Like the garage door opening,

shutting, opening, that red light blinking

while the beeps beep beep.

Like your heart when you just won’t die.

She won’t promise not to be problematic

no matter if you throw a lamp,

hold a knife,

piss in a bottle beside the bed,

pawn her ring.

She pulls over to make sure the potholes

aren’t really pedestrians she’s run over.

There’s a patch of good grass

and a patch of crab grass or weed.

You can put your hand in the two,

push into the clumps of dirt beneath

to feel what makes one grow so rich.

You can pick a thousand clovers,

and you’ll never have more than 3.

But that’s the million dollar question:

How does it end?