AIR FRIED ON A TUESDAY

Claud Jackert

We don’t remember when having skin got so unpleasant Feeling like foreign objects within our own shells

But the curl of skin at your heel A quarter size callous at the thumb Tug at our displeasures and displace them with ease

While you try to untether yourself From the nervous young thing your mother made You serve senselessness You serve a nagging sense of dread You serve fear of the future And all the anxious acolytes Eat it right up

Play your games all you want A charade without bidders My pockets are empty I’m not buying it Even if I wanted to.