SIT: A BI-SEXUAL HOOKER'S FIANCEÉ DECLINES
by David Oprava

I sit there.
I am making you an omelette with questionable eggs.
I am watching you eat, wondering where your mouth will go today.

You sit there.
You take prenatal vitamins rich in folic acid.
You fill in your taxes.

He sits there.
He's got his cock in your ear.
He's screaming, "Do you feel lucky?"

She sits there,
She's licking her way to China, your heartbeat quickens.
She seems so happy, you try to taste like Kung Po chicken.

It sits there.
It vibrates, rattles, and hums.
It turns your perineum into a timpani drum.

We sit there.
We are mutually rubbing erogenous lottery scratch cards.
We both win a lifetime supply of sloppy seconds.

You (pl.) sit there.
You (pl.) make some tea and watch Oprah.
You (pl.) try not to talk about work.

They sit there.
They are torn, she wants one, he doesn't.
They wait for the next day, wondering what the imaginary kids would say.