Why does everyone keep going to
the upstairs bathroom together?

Descending through the floorboards,
my feathers point in one direction.

All windspeed and friction and lust.
Chemistry meant to keep me afloat.

She rolled her eyes. She paused.
Do you notice all the swapping?

There's no orbit local enough to hold me
at its center. I'm an old man. How

am I supposed to keep track of
who's fucking who? The plexiglass

tastes like acetone, like quiet nights
against one's will. I bark at passing cars

because all other purpose has been bred
out of me. Just cut me a fucking line

and stop introducing me to people.

Eric Subpar is a poet from Washington whose work has appeared in Hobart, X-R-A-Y, Bruiser, and Burial Magazine. His novel, GHOULS IN LOVE, is available from Pig Roast Publishing.