There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy.
We drink coffee in white, square mugs
on the fifth dirty step.
I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach.
You do not care about hydration.
You are covered in so much paint
you look like Matisse in a fender-bender.
You look sore all the way down to your fingers.
The bed in the opposite room won't be yours,
but could be.
I lope around nauseous on the mornings
I don't work. I light candles that jump
with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark
unholy early.
I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there,
the newly living.
The loud neighbour,
the considerate neighbour,
the goddamn dogs.
I open the bedside drawer.
No Gideon hotel bibles.
Condoms, picture frames,
instructions for a washing machine.
No Bibles.
Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy -
or in my pockets.
And sometimes I drag it behind me,
like wedding cans on a bachelor's car,
filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware,
threaded cotton of towels
too often used without washing
and wine bottle bones.
And somebody once told me not to paint a
room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime,
and I could damn well sleep in here,
and sometimes do.