Yard Sale of Thoughts

Illimitable Flesh

We line up for the main event:
pastries in a bakery long-since closed,
streetlight, baked goods, 
ghosts.

Festooned in garments
stiff as coconut macaroons.
Men in tuxedos, stale eclairs, 
but we glare at each other's throats,
gleaming in egg-white slickness.

Tonight, we wear our sugarcoats.

I am offered a mixed drink with a straw. 
How barbaric! I tell you how
this year, I will take less plastic
and for each flow, I will repent.

I will ask for forgiveness and repent.

This is it! My New Year's Resolution.

Above us, familiar signage:

Be grateful for the establishment.

DIY-style, 
the words signal a nod of respect
to all that pass through it.

On the other side, 
a lingering charred scent.
Rotisserie flames like fireworks, 
and as we enter, 
a rising cheer from the
starved guests.

I watch you blush.
Pink flesh sears best. 

Those who have a glass make toast, 
in somber hope and fond remembrance.

But you find your hands empty;
your throat too parched for words,

for tonight you are the roast.