Aug 292011

Perhaps my middle-aged spread, love,
Is made of despair instead of

Potato chips and beer.
The refrigerator's cool porcelain leer

Sighs and hums in weighty solace
Nightlong, and leaves a light on in the palace

Stocked with richest foods, assembled desires
Anxious yet to stoke caloric fires

That youth kept warm
By muscle burn.

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