Rubbermaid Bride

I want to take a ride on your Rubbermaid Tupperware bride, slobber her plastic lids. Slide me down casserole counter. I want to eat deviled eggs and wear her wedding dress, stain it with mayonnaise. She doodles your name and counts Egyptian cotton. She cooks and cleans. She has cocktails after work with the girls. She doesn’t know you call me looking for reality. But my soul sits sour on your bedside table when you’re gone, beside your glass bong and your orange Texas sweatpants I’ve stained with tears. Your smell sticks and mixes with my perfume, telling me I’m doomed. I’m too in love with you. Telling me to leave you. Now you’re up to your neck in Tupperware underwear trying to peel back the plastic to taste genuine banana republic socks splintering your backside. My poems are only haunting memories recollecting faded smells and laughs. You dream in color through the murders we plotted. Killing each George Bush supporter. I thought that nothing could be as intoxicating as the taste we heaved back and forth after the whisky stopped working. I suffocated myself. I blew sober kisses through autumn air. Nobody heard. I recall splashing around the champagne fountain then slipping out the tent seam. Before I made a ruckus. Before I told the priest you were an atheist. My breath makes frost at the city. I see exhaust in idle slow motion through rice confetti.

Just married roars out the tailpipes.