From the Dumpster Suite

In lonely California
The sun is warmer than warm.
Just like it should be.

20 cats stand guard
At my brown door,
Lurking under cars.
On fences.
Getting it on and
Making a ruckus with the crows.

I’m half-tempted
To throw on a skirt
And head back to the bar
For a drink with strangers.

Because what the hell?

The water is only hot.
And the iron refuses to be,
So I show up
A bit rumpled and scalded.

And I’m not sure
What to do
With myself here.

So I listen to your voice
And sleep.

Restless.

Wake at 4 am —
I can’t adjust.
Wait until it’s time
For the something-like-coffee.

More cat-watching.

And I dreamed you last night.
I dreamed you needed
Kissing lessons.

And I was glad to give them.

And then I dreamed
A roomful of player pianos.
And jumping from the tops of buildings
With no fear.

My edges feel worn.
One more night,
And then home.

(California hotel room, 20 feet from the dumpster.)

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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