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?
