Saturday, February 1, 2020

EMPTY INBOX SATURDAY NIGHT. By John Tustin


 He made a Facebook post
He sent out a Tweet
It said, “Show me your tits,
Let’s see your feet.”

His penis was limp
His inbox was bare
It was a ghost town
Nobody was there

He thought to himself
He thought long and deep
Could I be so lonely
Because I’m a creep?

He dismissed the idea
No way that was why
So he remained thirsty
His inbox stayed dry

“I won’t ask again,
I’ll just go to bed.”
He closed social media

And jerked off instead.





John Tustin might like pix of women's feet sent to his Facebook inbox but he hates to
write third-person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
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