domingo, abril 22, 2007

The Apartment

In two years I haven’t filled the ice cube tray

“Is twelve o’clock tomorrow, alright?”

Sitting on the computer chair I wait for them to leave my apartment

My slowly undoes itself

Possible renters wear shoes, t-shirts, pants

The poet doesn’t remember saying she wanted to write a three-sentence novel

I make a disc of ninety-five photos for a friend who just bailed on our moving plans

Lately I don’t haul ass and I'm tired of being alone

Gurgle is all that occurs to me or, I am lonely as hail

Movers, answer the phone at ten p.m. on a Sunday

Moochers sound better as lickplates

My selfishness extends to licking plates

Can I have a drag?