Florence is boring, its glories tawdry and punches
itself daily in the face,
and after fondling itself for an hour, manages
to kick itself in the crotch.
It kills everyone and has never met itself.
Tender as a thawing pork chop
and sweet as an ice cream sandwich wrapper
left behind on the bus.
It tells lies that make my dad sad to ignore
and my mother says don’t drive down alleys,
what are you up to anyway.
I switch sugar and salt for a prank,
forget, and ruin the cantaloupe
the coffee, the Wheat Chex.
Yet there is no replacing it,
elephant footed and coiffured,
hidden stuff, relics and charms.
Hold on I gotta go smoke.
Hold on I hafta make a call.
Hold on – my soulful addiction
to Florence and fluorescence
chanted and cheated in a stadium.
“I hope you die/I hope we both die”
sings the speakers set on the car hood
beside the Black Sea, & I renounce nothing.