The woman and I both realized internally
That we needed some conflict in order to be happy —
.
That the being “friends” thing didn’t really work,
We both secretly hated our jobs,
Hated the clothes we had to wear
Into our jobs,
.
And we were both a little bit scared,
Too,
When
.
We drove across town passing
Boarded-up blocks and
Societal refuse with heat outside the gas station
At night.
.
We’d shout, then,
Shove,
She’d bite me on the leg and I’d
Smack her in places of her body
I can’t disclose, we
.
Got to body coating
Like a high school rite of passage
Officially endorsed by The North Face,
Then quit,
Then still hated our jobs we had to go back to
The next day.
.
I said to myself,
Hey,
I’m the king of my little
Fucking mole hill here.
.
So we tried being friends,
It was night in winter
And we both felt a sun burning
On the insides of us,
.
Perceived a red,
Bulbous ball arching up around us
With us at the excretory bottom and
The man in there was playing a harp,
.
It was a paean to death,
The death of the white man and
His blood running like sangria
Across the frozen ground
The same damn color, after all.