Aquarium abuts
hipsterium. My heart
beats fast – blame
Synthroid, that’s uppers
without sin. Maybe
I’m breathless for
obelisks of lost feeling,
my love. Or at 6s
and 7s over
my ruinous profession,
reporting, that used
to pay for words.

Viewing tanks
next to the hot algae
chick, the ginger, tattoo-
anchored corner men.
The maritime condo
clatches, the watering holes
spitting out old sea
dogs or aging yoginis,
for whom breathing’s
a career choice.
For nearly all: ‘self-
employed’ means
still alive. This
Census is eternal.
Marriage our collective
scar tissue webbing
over extreme emotion.
We name stuff and hope
that’s proof. How
reporting works.