Satan takes them to a discotheque
in Spain. The ex-girlfriends come and go
talking about some guy named Angelo.
This is the part of the joke
where I woke up wondering,
who dragged me down past the bar
and stole my new handmade shoes.
Evil eyes, the faces aching in the echo
of the bass. Someone had filled
the room with owls. Like Tupac,
he’s always releasing new material.
I know all the songs of the woebegone.
I sing them into the birdcages of girls
go-going and, for once, feel at home.