Her Name.

A poem about pervasive thoughts.

It’s impossible to get the waiter’s attention.

While I wait, I watch the different textures, Patterns, red lips, head-scarfs, and silky-summer-dresses, Wrapped around Tania, Carmen, Umma, Magdalena’s body.

Or whatever her name was.

Madness, ordering artichoke salad instead of lobster bisque because…

The waistline.

That hungry ghost who won’t let us order the right thing on the menu. Chases us down the street and sits down next to us on the subway.

One slimy hand between her thighs, Laura, Nzinga, Latisha, Selena, Or whatever her name was.

Doesn’t discriminate, really.

And no one sees, The civil arrest never comes.

The subway doors won’t open at my stop, And this fear, This fucking fear of spilling over, Fear of occupying too much space, Fear that doesn’t even belong to me… Sits beside me like a mid-summer heatwave.

This perverted thought that hangs on billboards, Taunting, Hands you an apple martini and a lap dance.

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