Sunday Morning Cartoons

I rented a tape measure to uncover
the price of my drowning tub.
Five feet and half an inch,
measured from naked
feet to the top of split follicles
like I was a Taylor shop’s
but upon another cancelled
pilot I reassessed my waist.
I could not buy the hat without
enough numbers on my head.
Pawn to queen’s fifth check
book signing me to sleep with jingles.
Five feet and seventeen years,
when accompanied with the weight
of grayed out cartoon shows reflected
in weeping precipitation clouds.
I feel in love with my expression
in a television screen blur;
the lies brought out my eyes
like mosquito stings.
I liked the burgundy best
but I left with the red in a labeled bag.
I wore it all the way home.
Restaurant signs left me hungry
so I ate my living room
radio emissions instead
of my doctor ordered placebos.
The bag was late.
“You are ugly; you are fat
and no one loves you tonight.”
Check mate. I lost
the remote control as soon as I woke up
from a commercial break.

SS

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