offering 4

By Marco A. Vasquez

What’s this I hear about a new bar
where I can get a mani-pedi
while drinking a cold beer? No thanks. I
can only imagine how many
more pints I can swill if I stick to
my gas station clippers that I only
use once my socks start tearing at the toes—
only then do I chip away at my
obsidian-like talons.

I can even buy a couple of rounds.
And, imagine the mounds of chicken
wings I can devour if I
maintain my practice of scraping
the excess hot sauce from under
the sliver of bitten finger nails
with my lower canines—dealing
with the slight taste of grime and gritty
crystallized crunch from yesterday’s dirt.

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