This is the counter on which eggs break.
On which eggs break for fizzes,
On which drool drops if you’re pissed.
“Next year I’ll work on the beach,” he says—
even if it costs me.
Fantasies. Someone slides down the counter
a document.
I think someone unzips his pants.
A fly is dying in the dirt.
I am flirting with disappearance. Today I said
Six words.
A dog swirls near my foot. I hate dogs and
it isn’t mine. Last week it was hot,
But now an air curls into the room,
a dry one. Rather cool. I pull it through my
mouth, behind the milk.
I guess I think of L___. A pain furls through
my soul. “Someday, when I am an
artist, and I am old…”
i begin to say.