The sunset just looks like radioactive chicken soup
iridescent & pissed-off & splashing across the flat-top
Victorians lurking Dear Diary like water glasses
in a diner whose whole herd of stainless butterknives
will slice fluorescent light into butter & harmonicas &
Marlowe’s jukebox breakfast on another tomorrow with its odor of
sex & Ivory soap floating across the Pacific amongst
almighty Holsteins chewing & lolling like trawlers
It all looked like a vinyl tablecloth spreading a classical
picnic in the ruins of the Parthenon where Maggie’s
sipping her 5th milky espresso & the moon by then
spilling its milk across the table
spilling its milk across Marlowe who’s feeling about as bucolic
as a hospital bed sleeping it off in Dolores Park