You're tomorrow, and I'm two months ago from
the corner by sushi until forty blocks on.
You still peak in the mailbox and I carol
by subway kids who tremble fingers
in grammas' passing grocery bags.
But the treble trouble mobwaxes
wee plastic baggies without the ziplock,
and now the freezer burns the peewees.
Our molestive child somersaults, now.
Our bookmarks crinkle when flown.
Our woodelephant lactates a bit in our frilly toilet bowl,
and our glass tables, napkins, and galaxies implode.
Good news (bears) on until you get these scrunchies.
-Arin Fisher
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