Lunch Poem

Don't think about me. I talk to myself more than anyone else.

It's been August all month.
Slums and lying
in bed with my teeth
trying not to think
like that.

That was when we
wove, had a plant
and plans to
keep caving,
held an apple
out to you.

The back of this paper
is a blood donor registry card.

Mess has to look nice
for me to leave it, has the raw aught
show to maw on, save me
some, I
think this is underlit

and I know you'd
like to take it, it's more
to seem we're less, not
that, but I know you
had it right,
the sense we're in together.

Uh oh, I hear
another morning.