Car keys are ducktaped to my cleavage.
The little bastard isn’t getting my car.
The humidity lays a wool blanket over my skin
planes drone on in the sky
the dog searches for bits of cheese on the kitchen floor.
It’s eyes still dark and innocent.
I long for an airconditioned Howard Johnson’s-
reeking of cigarettes and fresh, miniature bars of soap-
to lie heavy on my chest.
The hum of the room and muffled sounds of doors opening and closing.
The distant purr of a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner.
To be away
in anonymous bliss.