Out of bed, out of want,
out of toast, out the door,
can you imagine my distaste
at never being able to shower
to get rid of the smell in my hair,
as if chat logs would ever care.
And then tiny seasonal favors
become scorching chores in an
unknown family friend's backyard,
and mosquitoes rave in the sweat
that I haven't tasted all week;
my beautification seems weak.
Then later, under a film of salty water,
the hootenannies and booms of
the spider-web lights seem dull
and lack fire to blaze the country;
but we stand to take off our goggles
and hard hats, and sing our vows,
not even fire enough to burn the cannabis plant,
and then go home, and by candlelight,
recant.
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