We wrap up our walk of shame
in pancakes dripping with innuendos
and discardable phone numbers.
Pour each of us champagne
to celebrate one more broken
stereotype of sugar sweet girls,
but we all embrace our spice spiked smiles.
Our mothers tell us to behave
in unheard voicemails or unseen emails.
We sit on the front porch; blinded in the glare
of the rising sun, and eat our breakfast
while the neighbors shake their heads
to the rhythm of the chirping birds.
Poetic Trials 