She scatters affection

like currency to the homeless.

A feast for urchins.

Babe,

she says,

through wan, worn teeth.

Babe,

I love this.

Her love is dry.

There’s nothing there,

a locust skin painted pink

and flung against a crowd.

Babe,

she says,

and something crawls,

akin to skin but not so near me,

crawling still and eerie.

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