Poetry Maybe. #7

Fake Picnic

once glamorous

whispering sweetie and baby

to those possessed every night

fueled by wild turkey

dressed with a devastating smile

and a barricade against misery

fretting about the forever alone . . . alone .

getting ready for a picnic that never comes to be

for two decades the furniture is in the same spot

nothing moves. nothing changes

Can you confess who you are?

The massive emptiness eat away at

the festive picnic basket

every year

all the flowered crosswalks fade

What used to be funny is transparent and ridiculous

The habitat of the glamorous is heated with coal and disgust.