Thursday, February 23, 2017

COUCH SHARK

Lying alertly silent, half-awake
here, I smell—

myself
on the approaching

car in the street's cloth interior, subtly
under notes

of normal menstrual function,
clementine oranges,

lavender swirled
with tea tree oil, all mingling

with oniony
schoolbook pages.

I can tell—my time has come
for the stage,

the clocks have reset,
the season is about to change.

I hear—the very sound
of this empty thing inhaling,

subduing and
bating its breath as I stand

and stretch
and can now feel

its insides rumbling,
quivering in time

with those footfalls
which presently

plod upon the steps outside,
like it's

not me,
but the whole place—that's

bracing itself—for her
return.

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