You hiss a pitiful morose
sweet flow of ham and finger slams
into the salad pot. A number, a number,
a sweet-tooth disaster, yet I—
exist in a vacuum of truth.
Tinder scrolls! I hold them in your hands at
the bar, where, fragrant stares
by the cafeteria man exist. A man, a man,
an almost chance. A lingering soul lining
dismissal notes of dreams, dreams, dreams.