Even though it’s new
the wires of your cage door
still rattle.
Cold inside, you demand
a constant 71 degrees.
Pop and techno
hit me in the face
like that puff of air
at the eye doctor:
jarring
distracting
slightly painful.
Peculiar keepsakes on display;
like that odd family photo
ridiculously large
lunging its welcome
from the foyer wall.
Your plump daughters wearing ringlets
and uncertain smiles
hang between your
arrogant head.
You.
Everywhere.
A shrine.
We sit outside with mixed drinks
you talk about your neighbor
the sushi king and how
this neighborhood
means you’ve irrevocably arrived.
Meanwhile, I am bored.
Terribly
terribly
bored.
You keep talking,
although I was not
finished with that
sentence
yet.
I am watching your words
drop like dead leaves
you point at them with one hand
and cover my mouth
with the other
But getting drunk,
laid, and rich
are not my super powers.
And I can’t dumb
my vocabulary
down
any lower.
I turn to look
at the front door behind us
and nearly choke on the
claustrophobia
in my throat.
It’d be a really great offer
if I didn’t have a soul.
Water from your lawn
runs down
the cul-de-sac
lined with desolate
cages.
I escape to the driveway
where my gas gauge
is empty
but my wings?
My wings
are fully extended.