Semi-Automatic Assault Rifle Poem by MARINA GIPPS

What can be said of a bible propping up the legs
of a broken bed at a flimsy motel for one last meeting?
A torn cover on a collection of words never read?
The endless tow he feels when he sees a pair
of unused white crew socks in original packaging,
now yellowed?

Fearing his unwarranted pheromones,
acrobat tics do sommersaults on his face,
as owners tug barking dogs back on their collars.
Yet he is a repellant, especially on Sundays,
body full of the souvenirs of womanly microbes,
the guilt of loving no one and loving someone.

The bars of a headboard are like those of imprisonment
as a seed germinates; he promised to marry her,
he lied with saran wrap protection- he is just another
shelfer in his daddy's supermarket about to fire.