Abandoned Pornography Poem




Angels fall from heaven,

the beating of their wings is not

unlike the ruffled pages of the Victoria’s

Secret catalog.

Torn and folded,

tucked between inkjet printings

of Lara Croft–

her towel just about to slip.


My friend had a thing for

Gillian Anderson.

So she was there too.

Carpet.            Drapes.

Not looking for a distant glow

but for some thing unknown

to spindly prepubescent arms.


She wanted what they all wanted,

face time,

and a place to call their home.

I loved the dirt behind the baseball diamond,

where the dugout hung

just above the river.


Turns out,

sandwich baggies

are not waterproof.


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