Sunday Squirt

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Women need certain men to make them squirt &
Men need WWI movies played in deadbolted rooms to make them cry
Our invisibodies keep geysers that require unlikely locksmiths to undo dams &
I used to make maps,
Every single Sunday, of how Life Should Go,
That was before I bastardized Jewish Time &
Scratched Sunday into another mapless brown mimicking earth, churchless only indoors but even then; old wood, cold coffee, dog breath, cinnamon, tobacco, wet windows,
Keep me close to the great openness
to the calamitous indifference
of the ongoing ampersand.

(Calamitous only to the moisturized man on my mailbox.)

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