she'll break out of
the bottle. She's been
pushing from within, akin
to a babe in the womb. Except

the womb is now her
room. In vintage blue glass
hours pass like the seasons,
with no rhyme or with no

reasons. Colored red, and
spread out like clouds
painted on the sky. They lie. They're
all genies out there, in navy suits

and striped ties, pleated skirts,
tweed blazers and cotton
shirts. On white walls men blurt. So,
do I. It's how I pass the time.