Leaving the Silver City
by J. Bradley
I’m terrible at painting. You can tell
from the way the bulls-eye shifts
based on her name.
I look for the red flags, burn
the ones I can’t live with, fuck her
on top of the ones I’ll tolerate.
The ending constantly revises itself.
Mondays, she gets bored of my
fingernail biting. Thursdays,
I catch her kissing light poles.
Saturdays, her patience erodes
when for the fiftieth time I’ll fend off
the economic benefits of abandoned
surnames in Vegas.
The good news: not being around
when only one of us can wake up.
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