we piss in the same sewer.
pretend we’re neighbors.
i nod; you walk on, polished as a liar.
i’m fine. you’re fine.
the cdc tests our piss,
calls it a spike—
guess what? not my problem.
we never touch. we never will.
i owe you nothing.
i used to pity this distance.
now i pity anyone who likes you.
i’ll leave. you’ll stay.
they’ll fold you like yesterday’s paper.
when you die,
someone will swipe pass you in the feed,
a double-tap on your obituary,
then keep scrolling.
your house sold to some young, uppity bitch
(just like me).
you’d hate her if you were still around.
but you won’t.
by then the street will be hers.
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