Love Song

it’s hard to hear from the hostile curb
    that Danish Claire and Madison
        (the ex-girlfriend)
come and go and talking up
    a tequila Rembrandt, not just talking
        when they piss-drunk Pietà
    with the lights on,

when you hack clove cigarettes wrapped 
    in crumbling pavement black, 
        like all the nighttime things
    could settle down and drink

their peach schnapps too, if they dared
    to dial mermaids 
        that never call back.

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