Fried in dopamine, slip me
into the melty center
and reward me with a dirty
napkin, feel me in the new baseline
of health, which should not mark
foul or fair, or do we not
still believe in spirit? I exist, all, in
my right canine, and I still have will,
where sugar should not matter yet,
when I want to speak with - girl,
my Fried-Oreo Stand muse, aproned
in white. I choose to sprawl on the grass
and wait, because I am perverse,
it will never be her fault, she accepts cash,
and smiles back with her lips, filler pursed.
Andrés Salas’ work has also appeared in Spectra Poets and Charm School.