Car Keys

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-

bleached bathroom

stiff bedcovers

to lie heavy on my chest.

ice bucket

television

Gideon Bible.

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

Cocooned

in anonymous bliss. 

 

 

 

 

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