The dually was perched
on the lip of a gully,
door open,
lights blinking,
engine rumbling in place
and the man in the wife-beater
paused long enough
to piss and think how pretty
the puffy clouds looked –
like breasts laden heavily with milk.
As he shook his last drops,
he hummed
part of a Smashing Pumpkins song,
not aware he was skewing
lyrics to fit:
“Yesterday’s just an excuse away…”

He had left her
mixed up
in a lime green velour blanket,
sticky and splayed
at the motel off the old logging road.
“The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet…”

He had long ago
thrown up his hands
to any thought of choice,
letting women tell him where to go.
The fucker was happy,
thinking of breasts and home.
“Supper’s waiting on the table…”

Hampered by margins
entirely of my own making,
I stare at my Converse
for hours
while listening
to sounds of a faraway city.

I am surprised to find
it’s after 1pm
and I haven’t gotten anywhere.

I don’t know the science
behind why memories
of the moon are vague
from the ‘70’s
but I know
we spend an awful lot of time
dissecting every crevice now
and though I’m drawn to facts,
I don’t like reality standing alone.

You may be wondering
in what artistic scene
I have placed myself in
at the moment of this writing.
I’m trying to staunch the bleeding
from a cuticle gone awry.
I’m waiting for tea to brew,
which is its own poetry.
Having just finished
half of a loaf of banana bread,
along with watching the last episodes
of a good detective show,
I am binging alone,
which is what leads to staring at the moon,
counting craters.

She turns into a quickening storm,
his song falling
along her neck
from a thousand miles away,
a low humming
like rocks under a creek bed
celebrating sun
(her day has not yet found his night).

No remorse
with the song unsung
but loved
and he tells her,
‘your heart is not wanting;
trust it.’