Thursday Evening, a Jamba Juice:
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I hope it’s farm-to-fork. I hear that’s how one man can help.
Perhaps the sellers can inform, but sheesh.
I frequently review on Yelp.
Friday Afternoon, the break room:
In the room the women come and go
Talking of D’angelo.
With “Have you heard his Black Messiah?
It’s worth a play or two.”
Saturday Evening, his apartment:
For I have known them all already, known their call:
Have known the evenings, mornings, times after work
I have measured out my life with Chipotle forks,
I know the voices braying, garbage all–
It sounds like Pitbull from another party.
I smell Bud Light. Dale.