Ten forty five, ten
forty seven, ten fifty—
the blond singer
sleeps fitfully.
Part-victim
part-perpetrator—
she feels
run-over
but guilty.
People say:
she doesn't actually
have a job, which must be
why she's pretty
sure she's
never been on vacation, either.
Waking up wishing
you were as dull
and dry as everyone else
must be the worst
feeling.
When you're this
talented and pretty,
the world is so
slick, round, and shiny
that you can't
get a grip.
nothing is discrete, no knob
ever clicks.
This must why,
it's a relief when
once in a while,
ordinary questions
yield ordinary answers.
What time is it right now?
Ten fifty five.
I mean—
Ten after eleven.
Close enough
for jazz.
