Join me on the suffer-bus, she cried,
spraying mood-juice indiscriminately.
Come, take a bore-tour of my foibles -
I take payment in emoji!
The seats are the velveteen of my frustrated dreams,
the windows are bare-all panoramic,
and the night-black switchback bends
There are packed lunches, she cooed,
feasts of failure and low-grade jeopardy.
Please, stick your straws deep into my flawed thoughts
and suck me!
The bus runs on a soupçon of self-obsession
lubricated by self-doubt,
and I, best pout forward,
will be on the mic
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter
would be pleased to hear them.