Quinn Forlini
Arugula wilts in the plastic
bag. Little things are
catastrophic now, how
days wither to nights
even when nobody can
find a reason. Panic
gorges itself on old greens,
hovering by the fridge.
Ice left out drips to liquid,
jelly congeals like an unwanted
kiss I can't loosen. I
lick my wounds, find some
mouse to play with,
nicotine kicking in through an
open door and slapping me,
pale as an apple cut in half.
Quarantine has got us all
restless, so everyone
says, but it's not
that simple. There's an
urge, sure, for hedonism, to
vanish into your impulses,
wallow in your rot. But I took
Xanax before all this, drank,
yearned for god, flipped open my
Zippo, let the smoke take over.