“Pap Smear City,” poem published by Locus Media Gallery, NYC

Yellowfly 3 (2)

I am afraid

to wake up that one spastic morning

when the lump in my throat

will have spread

to the crack of my ass.

Roz Abrams

is on MTV.

She is firm-chested cancer

Eye witness death

Until sleep releases its gas.

I will wish

I had shed one more tear

When the doctor looks up from my lap

And says, “Insurance is an illusion.”

I will fantasize about his oral love

while he writes my prescription for suffering.

The birds on Avenue B

never eat off the street,

they hover over my head

and watch me take my chances.

My mother would slam the window all night,

but my father was already gone…

Back to Eyewitness news:

“A study has concluded that it is more important to New Yorkers that their lover is better for their work life than their sex life. The study also concluded that is more important to New Yorkers that their lover be better for their work life than their sex life- Roz.”

Casper the friendly show host

is spreading infection

because fame

does not impress his parents.

His eyes are sheets

that remind me to shave.

A smile spreads his legs

to fertilize my grave.

The subway

digs from platform to platform,

though all the interesting people have left New York.

Delinquent taxis look for parking,

the avenue stale as a hospital,

but drag queens smoke in the darndest places

from the burden of representing joy.

© 1996 Laura Dinnebeil

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