Penguin boy.

Three hours' sleep stored

behind my eyelashes and this small town

starts blending

their faces make this pale wash

over the sky line

we barley keep our faces open

while driving our cars.

our tongues are quicker than

our motives

to control

the very things we need not

explore.

we were white trash county-

we were heavy moonlightin'

swooning with our boots on

or off.

As if any of these peculiarities were planted by you

As if you were doing me a favor

remember that moldy art show we went to in Portland?

you are staring at this piece of

abstract art or something

and the artist is holding his champagne glass

with his pinky up

his stupid pinky.

and you are making noises

that imply

intrigue

you are making sounds that are

lies.

and he walks away with a smile

and you decline (with a shake of your hand)

the finger food the penguin boy

is offering you.

Today not a single word from him

just a screech of a bird-of a tire 

as if the universe suggested r-i-p.

Honestly, I felt so romantic all day.

when I think of death I think of ...coffee

always brewing.

then Oswald overhears and scribbles on a napkin

please,death is the least of it.