I sat beside my window and listened
to the dragging of heels and drunken laughter
four floors below. I pulled the plug from my outlet
to let in the sound of two strangers having ***,
so I could see if there really was a difference between
what happens between two people and what happens
in the midst of mindless company. I paid the landlord
in Monopoly money. Soon enough, I'll have to pay the rent
of Boardwalk for an apartment on Baltic Avenue.
She told me she'd be over after she ate, but I didn't
want her to rush it. I can wait.
Take all the time she needs
to make memories out of broken bottles
and bent caps. Clothes all seem to melt away
when ***** slides past ladies' lips, but I know my girl
has a Solo cup of tap water between her knees.
That is why I wait for her.

I held my swimming pool stomach
as they unraveled the hose from the side
of the house. I laid on my back in the needle-like
grass that perforated my skin. They cut beneath
my ribs and lined me with a wood tarp to keep
the water in. No anesthetics, just a cup of fruit punch
to numb the pain. The yellow parasol inside dropped
deeper into the cup with each sip. They placed the hose
in my incision and sewed the skin around it.  
As my stomach expanded, I sipped harder, so the pain
would go away. But as I neared the bottom of the glass,
the liner ripped, and summertime was ruined.

The radio across the room
doesn't play FM, but that's okay.
I'm content with static propaganda,
and a cat biting at my pant leg.
I guess China won and the debt
ceiling doesn't have a fan big enough
to keep all of Capitol Hill cool.
I have a fan still in a box in my bedroom
beneath ***** clothes and empty folders.
I could be the solution to Washington's problems,
but I feel better holding out.

Under winter's breast,
we were calmed down and tucked in,
but not very tight.

Winter coats were pulled
off wire hangers as fast
as they were hung up.

Last night, Winter placed
one more layer on the earth.
We added one, too.

My dad
taped my first steps
on VHS. I took
my hands from the table and walked
to him.

The tape aged with me.
Cheering and static
muffled my excited squeals.

I know
I’ll grip the camera one day
and film my dad folding
his hands on the
table.

He wanted to please her as he had when they were fifteen,
she just wanted sleep.
“Please, I’m not in the mood tonight,” she groaned,
and turned towards the threshold of their bedroom.
She fixed her attention to the clatter of dishes displacing water
she was too tired to change.
Her wine glasses were closer than they were in the sink.
He turned his thoughts to the constant hum of the street light
outside their window,
and thought of this marriage.

Clenched teeth taste weak as they hold back the truth,
and each second wasted burns more than any mouth washed out,
but it’s worth it. “*******, Mom,” is what she says
as a sting of regret coated her tongue like cough syrup. She never holds back.
“I hope you ******* die.”
Liquid metal and salt fills her mouth to keep her quiet.
“You’ve got nothing to show for your life; that’s why Dad left.”
A heat is burning her tongue,
and leaves behind the painful taste of rubber,
like the marks her father left on the driveway.