by Carl Santoro


They rushed out of the theater

during the credits.

He held her hand

even when outside;

him kneeling and

retching by the curb.


“What the hell was that?

Is that your take on

The Deer Hunter?”


He paused from

post-vomit drooling,

“No — I think it was from

the three white Russians

you made me.”


“You didn't have

to drink them.”


“Right. Oops.”


“Don't fool around.

You stink now.”


“Right. Oops. Again.”


“You know what — Fuck you!”


“Wait, where are you going?”