Exhaust Fumes and French Fries

We live on small golf courses

surrounded by the hushed admiration of whispering crowds.

Summer smells like exhaust fumes and french fries.

We’re sweet. We sweat sugar and grease.

Flesh is forced purple between

finger and thumb.

Pleasure’s filleted and fed on tiny

forks.

A thousand strings tied to

a crowd of balloons a giant

planet with a thousand moons.

We see you lit up and we look.