A Larder

Everyone is pairing off. I remember when a boy-toy
was an anathema to you and your ilk. Guess what I was.

Now you cuddle and swoon just like the rest. You bore me,
and so does everyone in between. Yawns abound; the club doesn’t

hit nearly as hard these days. Cocaine, vodka, some grad school
fuck-up you fucked two-&-a-half-years ago: this is the past now.

What, now? It’s puppies, road-trips to New Jersey or Connecticut,
meeting the folks for brunch after a sexless anniversary date-night
coupled with hint-dropped earrings and some Oscar-bait shit

over an over-priced Chard and cheap cod, and a baby, soon.
Your breasts will sag and he’ll start to lust after your sister, her
friends; you’ll cheat. Is this the Golden? Ditch the dog. Live a little.

Longer is the life the young lead. You’ll need a larder for after this
couplet is done.

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