AFTER A NAP, I am clinging heavily writhing. The room is giggling lightly writhing. Gentle alarms sound. The gift card I sent has just been redeemed. No thank you. My Groupon has just expired, but I still felt it a deal. Discovery of my Amazon Locker unlocks our together-forever (These all feel conjunctive, like my eyes – get a room – look like they’re red from laughing). My Car2Go is no match for a Durango. My Lyft driver isn’t my Lyft Driver, and we’re in Belltown. If I could give no stars, I would give no stars. But all I can seem to give anymore are stars, because I expect stars too. What remains is a man attached to a balconette. Attached to the balconette is one room, one bathroom, one dish, no key. One of the main benefits of having critiques of consumer capitalism instilled in you at an early age is that it’s a real moneysaver. Wow, oh God, you’ve made it.
Anthony Warnke's previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bayou Magazine, Painted Bride Quarterly, Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, and The Prose Poem Project. He teaches writing at Green River College and lives in Seattle, Washington.