Untitled

If my poetry was a person, I'd be a sex worker.
Gawk at me shoulder-to-shoulder with
Beer-on-the-wall Long Johns
Racketeering your paper
Only for the most fitted.

My mouth agape, the major eclipse suffuses
Our co-working locale like a top secret handshake.
The moon pulls the title card from the sea,
The sun hides behind its own parchment's disease.

Buy me dinner first, fuck me good later.