normalize

Squatter's Blood Red Pesto

I wanted to say no to him but I had needed sex. It is a hard thing to defer when you are homeless and cannot get rest.

I paid three pound for a few cigarettes I know I will not finish, such the American
After promising to leave the keys, I didn't.

I tore open the tin of tuna for him with a dead man's knife - rusted, but that was only after
He punctured it with the broken can opener, barely, just enough for me to Freddy Kruger it out of anger.

Forking out the meaty remnants into the pan, the sad humor of dead fish squished out of metal holes. 

After the smell became too much to stand

we walked, behind each other, two teetering hot bowls in hand
down the length of a stranger's hallway that is older than both of us combined,

In the silence of porcelain being scraped clean and thoughts not shared

I saw you throw your child support papers to the side. I dare not ask and
You curl your hair at the nape of your neck while
I try to ignore the warning signals that your half finished food provided.

This poem, the abstract of 

Our post-sex duet 

The making Sainsbury brand pasta with garlic and tuna, 

That post-halfhearted orgasm red pesto cost one pound fifty
and after buying it 

we have nothing left to our name.  

Think of tomorrow? 

Not now, not now.

We need more blood red tomatoes.