Mistakes mistakes

And such careful

Faces short breaths

And some nice long

Ones skinny breasts

Hidden behind thick

Sweaters but twiggy

Legs pushed into

The elements with faux

High boots

But true struts

A cool sip of

Confidence at least

Perhaps maybe okay

So it’s hard to tell

We’re just living here

Crashed out on cream-

Colored couches

Or stuck in the

School-day crush

It’s not too late, son

But we really gotta book

It here, you maniac

I’ve no longer any interest

In fucking with these fluky amateurs

These kicked-and-tired leaders

Looking so goddamn resolute

And content

While they’re sucking down

Eighty-dollar lobster tails

By the slippery dozen

Slurping up the juices

Slopping down red wine

Tiny bits of lobster floaters

In the glass

But it doesn’t matter