Ambrosia

The water tastes weird now. Something odd about it.

Metallic and tangy like sticky, honeyed sap dripping from poisoned trees.

Melted reusable water bottles run through the river, swirled with green and cornflower

blue and the strands of spun sugar in the shape of park trails.

You watch the stars fall and the cardinals sing with a lit cigarette in your mouth, the

red-hot cherry burns your fingertips, and you wish the nicotine was something a little

more scandalous.

You’re adventurous, and you’re scared; your turtle shell is spiked with silver daggers that

shine iridescent oil spills in the neon glow of aurora borealis.

Your jacket is denim and flannel, steeped with ugly smoke and dollar-store cologne that

smells like toxic masculinity and wet soil.

Your palms are stained with hair dye, and you’re caught red-handed with berries and

cherries epileptic in the background.

Well, how pretentious you are, kid.

Poetry written in fading ink on synthetic cardstock that you splatter with dirt and

burger grease to make it look ‘vintage.’