Until You're Happy

 

 

 

I leave the TV on, so that upon my return

the apartment interior flashes with flesh:

​

     Murder or sex?

     It's difficult to discern

​

     as the heavy breathing and moans can sound quite similar.

​

After parking, I went into the apartment laundry room

where I fed my hard-earned dollar into the vending machine

​

     just for the thrill of watching a honey bun

     fall into the hopper.

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I often feel that I deserve a treat

​

because

this

is

so

hard.

​

Over indulgence, I know, the floor squeaking, conversational:

 

Oh these fallen trees, clear cut

so that I might tread, delicate

in my socks, waiting for something - anything - to happen.

​

Once dark,

​

I point my lens at the pin-prick stars,

still waiting for the mother ship,

​

longing for abduction or surgery

just to remove these parts of self:

​

"I won't be at ease until you're happy," I say.

​

"Underneath my clothes, I'm naked too," I say.

​

My phone, in my pocket,

vibrating as if it were inside of me.

​

​

​

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