Jack's Insults

She pops her bubble gum
and laughs at us,
like it meant nothing,
like you didn't just insult her
with your words.
She understood you, Jack,
but as of Tuesday, she's
been off her rocker
and speaking in tongues.
She's waiting for
a mysterious phone call.
She says this
between hyper breaths.
"Crazy bitch," you say
underneath your Raiders cap.
You call all women that word
so I don't put a lot of
stock in it.
Last week,
we saw her rummaging
through garbage cans
for mementos of lost love.
She spoke to me when you
weren't around
(she says you make her uncomfortable)
and said:
"I found Miss Havisham's
wedding cake in a recycle bin
full of Fanta cans!"
I believed her,
because for days
she smelled just like
strawberry soda with
vanilla frosting.
It would have made a good
air freshener to cover up
the stench of your feet.
Don't take off your shoes
in my car anymore,
ok?
It's gross.
Above all else,
it's a miracle she survived
sleeping in a trash compactor
for three days straight.
To me,
that proves
garbage is a constituent
in a world full of indignity.
That's not a deep thought, Jack.
Just an obvious one.

"No we're never gonna survive unless we are a little crazy"