by Jasmine Neosh

Last night I met a man from the same little
shithole town
that you are from
and I kissed him in the mouth
to find out if he tasted like coal
like you do.

While he slept, I tried to pinpoint
on a map I drew on his back
exactly how far apart you might have been:
how many years spent at this hopeless high school,
the likelihood that your bodies touched
at some god awful club
in the late eighties,
or whether or not as a general phenomenon,
people can really be said
to have something in common
just because Bruce Springsteen says they do

and in case you were wondering,
the answer is yes, yes

All you goddamn rust belt boys.
You taste like a strip mine to me.