{On a backdrop of spiced merlot-colored paint, a girl dances idly
with her microphone cord,
waiting for the part where she sings.
The boy
at the keyboard
hangs his greasy bangs in his eyes;
he pounds the keys,
and makes the whole bean coffee behind the counter
jitter in its can.}
I uncross my legs, cross them,
think about the beads I’m not wearing,
the hair kneading its way through my scalp and
of how much I need a haircut.
=
I can’t go back to sleep after he leaves;
I just remain naked under his sheets,
turn on the weather.
The man in the suit says storms
I don’t trust him – the sun is coming up.
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