Hungover and Teething on a Hotel Pen

Naked between borrowed bed sheets, lower back an ice
cream scoop silhouetted by eggshell cotton. Is it Sunday or Tuesday?

I wear time on the bridge of my nose – oily, seared
raw to the salmon layer. A rooster waltzes across the pool deck;

Tiffany water, neatly arranged rows of deck chairs, drinks
with those glassy, doll-sized swords. My eyes blood-

shot with rum. Sweat ring on the pillow, a salty halo. How much
money is left? I could die this second and it wouldn’t be half bad.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *