I shake it up,
push the nozzle
and listen.
Air rushes out.
What little is left comes
sputtering out.
There are thirty three
servings in a seven ounce
whipped cream bottle.
Standing barefoot on tile,
I have gone
through them
all. I have
seven months
before I turn
thirty four.
I turn it upside down,
wrap my lips
and start sucking
on nitrous oxide.
I’m a grown man
who has run out
of whipped cream
and material from which
to write my poetry; thus
this poem.
I’m a grown god damned
man, throwing it away.
All I’d ever wanted
was a little taste
of something sweet.
Everything runs out
and so I run out
to the corner store
for a different sort
of bottle to suck on,
but the warnings are all
the same.
“Contents under pressure,”
every bottle reads.
Me too, I think, as I suck
another down.

written on 04/03/2014 by: Matt Kane