The fog is deep
and of cigarette smoke.
The foghorn is hoarse
punk rock guitars
that drift in
when she opens the door.
She then falls
more than sits,
petite
like the little mermaid
except this ain't Copenhagen bay
but some messy dorm's
dayroom
and rather than a sea-slicked rock
what she's crumpled down on
is a half deflated
red plush
airbag.
No scaly fish tail flipflops
on the dusty carpet
but tails she has,
nevertheless:
the pony kind
one blue
one orange
and flip-flop do go
her eyelids
a few times
before she definitely falls
asleep.
Lava lamp light
glints off her piercings
like sun rays do off the green waves
and deep as the ocean
is the rumor of her snores.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment