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Homage to My Waitress

Skinny girls in the grass

are sipping beer, at the pinnacle

of June, gazing down into autumn.

Supine on a blanket I bought in Santa Fe, a skinny one

pushes on me, as I push on her, to prove

love is natural. Everything is necessary,

and at higher dosages, deadly.

I join her on the green and yellow lawn,

the sounds are plowing through me--

skinny girls chirping in the grass,

latino radios as usual.

My image in a green pond: is this why she loves me?

because I have olives for eyes? I see her

emerging from larger, more cumbersome haunches.

She nuzzles me with interest.

Some electrical node hidden in her cheek

that stalls me. I'm so hungry.

She produces from somewhere a long red menu.

--Matthew Rohrer



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