Floating Through the Aftertaste

I don't want to win. I just want to disappear for

a minute. I'm parked in a half-lit laundromat glow. Quarters spin like

tiny planets. My head's an arcade of maybes. My face,

a neutral plastic calm. The boulevard looks airbrushed tonight, too pretty to

feel real. Up here, it's clean and embarrassing. Down there,

it bites and bills. Hands in my pockets, pretending that helps.

If life's a courtroom, I'm doodling myself out. So I float

through the aftertaste, half awake, half asleep. Yeah, the mess keeps