Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.

Sheepishly held-down dental floss
guitar strings and cracked hands
like sink-side toothpaste.
Cuspid picks in a mint-scented, plastic bag beneath textbooks
and a zipper rusted like gingivitis.
A backstage house of pamphlets
slurred time like novocaine speech. Thirty-two people sat at coffee-stained tables talking about their routines between sips of créme de menthe cocktails and water.
Fluoride lyrics dripped from his mouth as people closed theirs.

I stayed up late last night writing you this letter
by desk lamp while you were three streets
down in Nowhere drowning in boxed wine.
If you got caught, the box'd be bigger with iron
bars and a bench where you'd sit and reminisce
about two hours ago when you were too gone
to sit down. Mismatched couch cushions
and black light posters of Marley and psychosexual
women in spandex. Then there's you with a cup
in your hand and a hole in your skirt, dabbing
the corners of your mouth with my late night
confessions. Thank you.

I knelt next to the bed and rested my elbows
on her pale thighs. Before I prayed, I pulled
a rosary from between my ******* and wrapped Jesus'
crown of thorns around my knuckles. My babygirl's
chewed nails massaged my parted lips, and the Sharpie
on her hand overpowered her lilac perfume.
I dropped to the blankets when she spread her legs
and the scent of impatient desire filled me. I eased two
fingers into her and begged Jesus for forgiveness.

A solar sunflower danced on her dashboard
and the lei on the rearview hit me like a snakebite.
Scented trees beneath my feet smelled like a flower shop
fire. Her seatbelt was knotted like her shoelaces
and her lemon lips kept me coming back.
Between us on the highway were CD cases and enough
loose change for a sweet tea. We turned off the radio
and listened to the roar of the wind through her cracked
windows. Her dress' hem flattened on her thighs
like the moon. Four hours to a truck stop with curios
and 75 cent ****** machines in the bathrooms.
Her doors creaked on their hinges as we danced
our way to the concrete.

Kids in pajamas cut at the knee,
so they won't trip barreling down the stairs,
beat on their parents' door.
There's a Bible beneath several self-help books
and a vanity mirror sporting a crucifix etched
in with scissors. Mom and Dad toss the blankets
at the headboard and follow their kids.
The sounds of squeals and running water come
from the kitchen. A pill case sits on the counter
while one kid fills a plastic cup half-full of water.
The blood of Christ and soap stains.
The kids smack the table trying for the rim
of their baskets. Jellybeans, peanut butter cups,
and shredded plastic bags fall from one's.
The other is showered by a cascade of prescription
bottles, daily dosage instructions, and torn-up coping
pamphlets. Carrying a handful of Prozac to his mother,
he tugs on the hem of her nightgown and smiles.

On warm nights like this, streetlights
dot the sidewalks thick like map markers.
The screeching of tires mixes with applause coming
from the church. The breeze pushes my hair like a broom
in the deli I used to work at. Croutons and capicola
don't taste as good forgotten beneath the stove.
A bike light dances beneath the brush and teenagers
hold hands like chain-link.
Doors on either side of me catch carpets and don't close
like textbooks during finals week.