Ain’t that there real broken, too?
Sure.
Hypoallergenic and chipped.
Sure.
Even now this.
Sure.
Even now who.
Ain’t that there real broken, too?
All clotted and clumped in the Southern summer heat.
All lost in sweat and salt and seething.
And all you’ve said is that with each passing day you have less and less to say.
Well, ain’t that there real broken, too?
The box fan in my window chirps like baby birds in the ides of the early morning.
Singing silently: I should have buried your body by now.
Scorning.
“Ain’t that there real broken, too?”