Baby takes another hit,
she's passed
the point where peripheral vision
blurs into her inverted gut
and she cries about the virus of society
she's afraid
she's catching tonight

Baby is an oxymoron,  
murphy’s law on mute--

the way she'll waste
bootlaces in urinals
to see what shape they make
when they float
leave
bumblebee pinstripes
and chalk scrawled
half past noon,

I GOT HER PREGNANT
on the changing station

(an ephemeral epithet,
a graffiti-fied gaffe)

Oh baby,
"this is the art
of perfecting denial,"
she'll exhale
before passing to the right
because she's just that much
of an insidious
fuck

(her palms drip
like the festering manifestoes
of bad hair dye jobs
and thrift store sweaters)

Doctor, Doctor, don't bother
it's Sunday now; she’s alone in a crowd.
the children will be coming home
for Christmas and she's
let the cat out again.