The trailer park simmers—
Mr. Pink slices
strips of darkness
by the crossroads.
A ranch hand scrambles,
marinating in trashy
love, wedged between
Jamaican breasts.
Republican jerks scratch
dirty puppies, drinking
before breakfast.
Sanchez brushes
against her skirt,
shredding tender fires.
Saturday’s treats dip
Into delicious choices—
sugar or chocolate
monks or Democrats
hot or slow roasted.
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