date night: fat lip



temple to temple

sex marks the spot

it’s just four small letters,

a microwave and a dog basket

shy from (real) love


there’s a mile-wide, shrill divide

the snag to post-marital bliss

in pretending we’re here (sometimes) and

pretending we don’t exist


so let’s bitch and eat crisps

and nourish this flaccid guilt

together, for the kids