Standing across the table (there were no chairs in the house) was my father, Emilo. The table itself was a sturdy rosewood, and one of the last items in the home. We had sold our belongings after mother had died -- my father said it was to help pay for school. We had each kept one tattered shirt and one nice shirt which I would wear to class every other day (we were shirtless in this moment, no need to sweat in clothes unnecessarily). We had one pair of jeans each - both tattered and mended with old quilts taken from the tailor's trash can. We also kept three of mom's blouses - one for me, one for father, and one for her. We were close to pawning hers, though. On the table, near my father (and, away from me) was my semester's grades and a polished bottle of amber liquor. His skinny arm swung across the table, smashing the bottle of gasoline-smelling alcohol against the bareness of the dry, wood wall. The liquid seeped into the pores of that portion of our home leaving a dripping stain. It never really dried. Two weeks and three days later, my father would flick the ashy edge of a cigarette **** into the wall. He was too drunk to know he wasn't in Hell.

The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air,
Meshing with the scent of a stale motel.
The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds.
The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped,
Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents,
Who care little for the subpar shielding,
Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation.
The outside, which was once filled with children
Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life,
Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis.
Behind the front desk stands the concierge-
As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and
Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving.
"He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself"
Residents were once told.
Now he stands grey and hunched,
As his residents lay sedated and soft.

Most of the snow has cleared except
for the ***** piles on street corners.
A black car treads behind me,
it's driver on the phone-
distracted but keeping pace.
I cannot help but focus on the phone,
black all over it's surface except for the screen,
which is so brightly lit
it is as if the sun were in the black car
still behind me-
and still distracted.
My car continues forward under the sun above,
which has long since shifted from yellow to red.

An engorged tide crashes into my side like an eighteen wheeler.
Or, perhaps it's a wave of indifference,
merely crashing down upon me-
pushing me beneath it's apathy.
Though, it could be nothing
and we are all simply drowning.

The sea has calmed.
The swell and crash has died down
to a gentle, rocking ebb and flow.

The driver behind me has left his black car
behind the green sun.
He is still on his black phone,
ushering frantic words and numbers.

Red and blue moons pull me from the water,
away from the moonlit rise and fall
and into a dark, entangling thicket devoid of clarity-
locking me in place.
And, on the body-
my body-
which lays ensnared under Sirens,
is an anxiety so large
it is responsible for the currents of the ocean.

Doe-eyed girl across the bar
Acting a shy two-step in the corner
No doubt this is a night not for you -
a night where one must evade man.

No doubt many wish to remove you from this venue -
Wish to feel the wetness of your lips -
Wish to hear the squelch, slap, and drip of intimacy.

I am no different than many.

But, doe-eyed girl,
I also wish to join your shuffle -
and turn acting into dancing.

Doe-eyed girl -
We can hold each other in a swaying upright embrace
'til the dye of your red shirt stains my hand,
and the blue of your jeans rubs off on my finger.

But, for now, I admire in between my own act -
in my own corner.