You duck walk like a North Korean,
Earlene insists, humorlessly.
Tomorrow we’ll be selling
all my Chuck Berry records.
We’ve only been on meth two weeks
and already there are slashes everywhere,
the couch, the shades, the freaking
coffee table. My shirt. Her high tops.
Next week we’ll hock the jewelry
lifted from her mother’s bureau,
maybe buy some cans of soup
with our week’s supply, get ready
for wrecked teeth. My face is splotchy.
And, for all our closeness,
I never even look at hers.