while you land on the still-ruffled
bed, stains hidden by white sheets.
A bug scuffles across the floor,
I kill it, pass you your shirt with
the light blemish; you twitch.
I write the note on a notepad:
Don't move please thanks.
You watch the massacres on
your phone, deny a call when
it starts ringing. You pull at
the switch on the lamp and it
doesn't turn on. Please don't
Worry. Come on.
We are both on the bed. The
springs depress, but will not
let us get comfortable. Tell me
a story, first. OK. The Wright
Brothers. Flight. No, not that.
The first. The fuuurst.
I light a cigarette. You're still
against them for a little while
longer. Your nails have scabbed
over, and the red is delicious,
like Twizzlers on the car seat
floor. You have Nothing to
Worry about. Take it easy.
We'll be here two nights,
and the blinds will be
closed-- Look, there's
even HBO on
TV, if it'll make it easier.