stillfugue

There are sweetening curves
to Friday night, this one,
when you’re old enough
to be abandoned, empty.
There are no pain killers,
no luxuries of bottled relief,
for you’ve passed those days,
and you wasted those days.
This is why the curves
are a skating bowl with pooled
goose shit liquids in the bottom,
and you can’t stay up on the bowl.