Poetica Spontenaium 7.1.03
Cleaning house.
Through files.
Old credit card bills.
Makeup that you vowed you would wow them with.
Pants that make you look fat but that you bought anyway.
There ever was hope for change.
Books go there.
No.
There.
Let’s put the journals underneath.
That way you’re less likely to reread them
and realize how little you’ve come.
And how melodramatic you still are.
And the stack of postits that you
scrawled lists, notes, with the dentist’s pen
and love tomes with a chipped finger nail
The impression is still there
On three sheets beneath.
You can put that in a pile.
Neat.
Let’s open the window.
It’s dusty.
Try not to think about the skin cells of you and he
that dance in the air under sunlight.
It’s a disgusting kind of pretty.
Lookit what we have here.
You thought you lost that precious pretty.
And here, you have it.
Found at last.
One set less of solo earrings.
Have the sheets dried yet?
Clean sheets when you can do naught about your conscience.
That’ll work for now, don’t you think?
Yes. That’ll be just fine.
Another 20 minutes and they’ll be done.
Yes, yes.
Another 20 minutes and all evidence will be gone.
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