It is a Great Pleasure
to sit
and eat pasta alone
while the silence
makes audible
the fridge hum,
the fizzing of soda
in the can: silence
bubbling into the solitary
air.

It is a Small Pleasure
to watch
glittering, shivering
neon
hover over
varicose roads
swelled with excess.

It is a Pleasure
to take
stories and store
them
and pluck the words
like feathers
off a dead hen.