a Monster, wanting to avoid the fate
of Icarus, who had too many sweets, his
waxen wings dripping the waste of self, late
reminder of desire not withstood.
For you, a can of Coke. The real thing. Not
Diet. I smile at the irony, "Good.
I'm sick of--" Stop. It wouldn't be too wise,
invoking categories now. I'd blot
out the beauty of this moment and lose
my reason for being here, drinking lies
instead of sugar, so I won't berate
myself for failing to pass the test, should
it come, but sure this sipping is my lot.
