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methane meltdown
by Ben Newell
The new lady
in
the
apt. below
drives a silver Acura
with
tinted windows,
is
very fat
and smokes a lot of pot;
the aroma
hits me
as soon as I get home
from
work,
pungent
and sweet and tangy;
she puffs
the
high-grade
stuff—

I would go down
and
introduce myself,
see
if maybe
she would be willing to share,
but
I’m afraid I might
be tempted
to make a move;
pot
makes me horny
and
the last thing I need
is to get involved
with
a fat pothead;
especially
one
who lives
below.

I see us making
yet
another run
to
Popeye’s/KFC/Krystal;
molded
to
her sofa, faces awash
with
TV glow;
we never miss our favorite shows;
I cough,
pass the bong;
she rips one,
jokes
about
the stench—

“Warn me next time,” I say, flicking my lighter. 
“That would’ve been a good one.”
“Sorry, baby,” she says.

I haven’t written a poem
in eight months;

I no longer care,
certain she’ll fart again
and
when she does
I’ll light it up
and care
even less.
April 2014
144