Whip-It

by Chris Butler

After hours,
a mound of discarded cream
melts in the Stop ‘n Shop parking lot
on a cool, cloudless August night
under the mumbling neon lights,
illuminating the chilled aluminum can
seized by my shivering hand.
The mass leaks in milky streams,
running off in random directions,
as the cans hiss with emptiness
from my pointer pressing the tip.
I am sodomized by the next nozzle
by inhaling the numbing nitrous,
and my brain cells swim in circles,
just to drown in puddles.