Sunday night

I call this poem... Waiting in the club Whiskey in my hand Jazz in my ears Fat girl to my left

I call this poem...

My boyfriend went out for a taco My phone has no service Still waiting for the show Not caring if I look shallow Tapping my phone

I call this poem...

Maybe I'll want a taco later Did I want one now? Fat girl talk about previous employment Apparently glass eyes get crusty

I call this poem...

Sip my drink casually Mic check, mic check The fat chick is loud I won't apologize for that

I call this poem...

Sunday night.