TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Today
I stood over a pot of water
and it boiled
it was boring
but it boiled
I watched it
whoever said it wouldn’t
lied
oh well…
I can still feel
your lips on my neck
your tongue on my thigh
your hands in my hair
your kisses on my stomach
why did I have to wake up?
I didn’t even get to ask
your name
or what time you’d be over later
I wish I could go back to sleep
and get your number
but I guess it’s for the best
I’d never call
About the author:
She’s always alone in her apartment, not even a cat and she’s a plant killer. Sometimes she has wine for breakfast. Sometimes just a SlimFast shake ’cause she’s too lazy to eat most of the time. She buys cigarettes from upstate Indians and finds the word “Indian” for Native American people offensive. She has a Master’s in Media Studies that’s about as useful as paying 40 grand to learn how to watch TV and read books. She lives in Brooklyn and often craves rib tips from the southside of Chicago. She only works on commercials to “money up” her unemployment insurance. She’s published some poems here and there, but can’t find the magazines. She’s got some stuff on websites like http://www.tripnyc.org/jackson.html and http://www.iveknownrivers.org/read-2.0.php?id=30 .
