culinary guitars

she frets and types
another letter about
culinary guitars and their apron strings
as her man wears a toolbelt
as he vacuums a shag carpet
dirty as a musician's hair.

something is always
wrong with how he
parts his hair,

the hat he tips
to pretty girls is gross and
gauche as greasy cake,

static fills his ears
when he rattles his change,
he types himself a sweater
that he'll wear into the ether.

there is no weather
except storm watches for bad breath
where in the state she lives in,
which is Anxiety, sharing a border with Panic.

she writes that no one
will kiss her
but it's not all bad
because there is only vapor
on their horizon,

bickering between declarations
of love that demands
a punch in the face,
a hand around the neck.