One last meal, family-style —

no family, and with suspect style.

November first, my almost-groom
fresh off his flasher costume

discharge at the office. Harris tweed.
I read it on his antisocial feed.
The motel life is all a dream —
we were, as they say, living the dream.

I appreciate our quandary,
hot-plate dates and frowsy laundry.

Face tattoos are never a good sign.
I hope his tumor is benign.
I won't forget the time he lent
me Inches, which I gave up for Lent.

Our love was threat, like phantom pain.
An almost-plan for a bullet train.

I'm weaning myself off graphic tees,
not taking on any new disease.
I walk along Pier 5 to kill the myth,
of course another stab at myth.

I pull my output from the shelf
and wildly anthologize myself.

I've adopted another yellow lab.
I hope to die inside this cab.
My lack of faith is punctuation —
no wait, the lack of punctuation.

Every intonation, one more pact
with injury; my latest one-act:

"Flossing in Public."
In the spattered glass of the republic