Laura E. Hoffman


I was always
Karen Carpenter
on karaoke Sundays
at the pirate bar
by the bay
my glorified fuck buddy
the artist
would turn away
from my plaintive singing
to light Camels in the wind
my cheap plastic cup
wine buzz warmed me
against the chill
that swirled naked
off the saltwater
I loved him
in the most
improbable ways
down to his
pigeon-toed foot
but he was cold
as the frosted
blades of grass
I stood on a
& sang songs
that I never owned
wishing I
was the one
suspended in oil
on his canvas

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