Bitches Get Stitches

“the city,” specifically.
walking against the flow
of business suits, past
impossibly skinny jeans on
the beer delivery model,
listening to “jumpers” as i pass
buildings older than my country
in search of breakfast where at
i discover
i need a reservation,
(a booking, here).

as i sit in hawksmoor
looking at five, other diners
i can’t help but wonder
how i came to live a life
so exactly
perfect.

“i’m sorry, sir
we’re out of the lobster benedict.”

there it is.