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Emerging from thick years
of coffee,
of gin and cigarettes,
I feel like my teeth.

There is nothing else at night
but ages of television.
The infomercials start and I masturbate
to the color of your eyeshadow.

New York, don’t bother me.
I’m too tired from decades
of bashing my head
against the window frame.

Most days I think, aren’t;
there isn’t enough space.
The pears hang thin all summer
weeping from their branches.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Joanna Vogel.


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