YESTERDAY’S DONUTS

So far south
it feels like the end of the world,
discarded ideals and beer-battered aspirations
litter the shore line.
Yesterday’s donuts sunbathe with
tomorrow’s comedown – still warm and wet from penetration
and washed away with Glen’s

so far east
the sun barely reaches,
a town filled with aged people
haunted by ever-present problems
that linger at every shop door.
You shall not pass
without the guilt of privilege
weighing – gently ebbing

so far detached
this isn’t home anymore,
not even the ghost of puberty past
or rosy mist of reminiscence
can fool me now 

-       but I’m tethered anyway,

to a town where yesterday’s newspaper
gets printed with regret
and fingered with greasy intent -
where the self-perpetuating cycle starts at 15
with a broken condom
on a dusty sofa
at a shit party
with your brother’s friend Dean –
a town where empty souls roam the streets
at the ripe age of 23.

They’re starved of purpose -
and dehydrated by the sea