enshrouded in caloric bliss,
my profile is a warped portrait,
something Picasso might’ve
painted, out of an aggravated
state, toward the human race.
then there’s you
with that perfect face,
meticulous makeup
and a plate of salmon
smiling at me
from across the table
with seaweed stuck
between your teeth
brushed
with a tool that vibrates
which i know you use
as you peruse memories of
my more handsome
teenage exuberance
such youth, it’s true
only seems to
make me the less of a sexy dude
and so you petrify
that once upon a time
palpitating womb
and shoot that selfsame cliché
from across the table
(you take marriage
for marriage’s sake)
‘look, is there something
between my teeth, dear?’
yes, honey, it’s me.