My Affections Can Be Bought

Another day in the field of the thing that no one wants to grow. The harvest is plenty, but the mouths are few. The hands are willing but the tables are empty. It’s a bitter love and a sour fruit. It’s a taper candle and a taste of you. It’s a book of matches and books on the floor. It’s her dress hung over the radiator. It’s the gas station coffee, it’s the gas station lights. It’s the gas station royal court and this station of life. It’s a bitter love and a sour fruit-flavored gummy worm. It’s a pocket full of twenties and you don’t have to say a single word. My affections can be bought and you have overpaid: no balance due. Every time you whisper in my ear, the cash register of my heart doth ring. Cha-ching. If you’re money in the bank then I’m dirty money on the streets. If you’re money in the bank then I’m as crooked as wall street. It’s a bitter love and an ice cold beer, shared in the back of a parking lot somewhere. It’s security cameras and lights on the street flickering. As you lick the top off your ice cream and stare at me quietly, as I focus on the steps ahead. From the corner of my eye, I see you swept.