Friday Observations, After the Black Hole

Little soap opera days come and go like Target cashiers:
how many do I have to fuck before I exhaust their ranks?
I am tired of the ubiquities--such as pipe bombs
roaming the streets and homing their hierarchies
at the less-than-thous, archly.
I am tired of the home kits of amyl chemical peels
I must apply, unenthused,
to the tip of my nose for a sense of self-worth.
The morning after pills are Argyles in the windows, saying hi.
Next year we'll sigh and find another semaphore
to signal to maroons
our wet spot within the archipelago.