why this morning?
why that particular song?
why that 5 min. clip of my life:
the saturated taste
of anonymous food from
a particular bar and grill
salad
that tastes too much like itself
that i can’t bear to eat
my gut too full
of wanting.
only the bitter of
iced tea is
palatable,
over the garble and hum
of some game
summing itself up
behind the intentional
chaos of bar bric.
the hallowed blue
of your eyes
reaching in for something
i don’t have
your pallid tenor echoing
uncharacteristic honky-tonk
verses with the digital
hiccup-skip of a
corrupted file:
why don’t you love me
like you used to do?
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 