happy sins and spitting seeds

The last spot of red taunts
me from the rind of summer's
final watermelon

the sugars are going
and the long night begins

three days later,
when Martha gets home
from work
i ask her if she
can pickup another

but she says,
"I wasn't kidding.
there is no more

except the stuff
shipped in from California or Argentina
or where-ever-the-hell they ship it in from."

At dinner, under my closed eyes
with my hands folded in interlocking-finger-style
I pray to God to forgive me
for wishing her so very cold
and dead.

in the back of my head though
I was tasting watermelon.