Valentine (I)Dan Pinkerton
Late of a night you lounge in the tub, thumbing a fitness mag, evil-eyeing the pale pink isle of your belly (the betrayer). I lie abed fashioning get rich quicks, mind as useful as Coppertone in a cave. Now I hear you, post-bath, stomping your feet, water fleeing in lemming-like droplets. Maybe I ought get a move-on. Penny stocks? Real estate? Neither of us, I note, messes with nighttime dental hygiene, which points to a certain gray, flaccid languor pinning us like moths to the felt backdrop of poverty and poor musculature. You come in wanting answers. Empty, I feign sleep.
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