A god in golden overalls leans
Out the driver’s side of an open
Lincoln in the drive-thru
Late night
Tries not to puke
Pukes anyway.
Smiles
Checks his watch
Pays too much for his tacos
Pays too much for our tacos too
Swerves off
We won’t forget it
Who could forget him
He won’t remember
How he got home
-M.
(Day 2 of the 66 Day Poetry Habit)
I saw you bought that house I loved
on the hill, off 
Doheny, hard to get to
during rush hour or when the veins of LA
burst and bleed all over West Hollywood
up Sunset
and gush through the Bel Air gates.
The skin of my inner wrists
with her oxygen-blue undertones
(soft contemporary design)
is up for sale too.
Ten million or best offer
(like the house on Doheny)
plus, realistically, another million or so
to meet your execting standards.
How deep, my Darling,
are your lightless pockets?
-M.
