East Renton at night w/ airplanes overhead
Mud on the courter panel of the car
where her boots tap the rhythm of the song
as it swivels with the rain beats – a war
drum thumping along to the eurhythmic spatter
of lights overhead twitching in a persistent
pattern of wax on, wax off, wayward fashion,
coffee in hand, tongue tastes like hot bricks, and her
scarf is neither chocking nor comforting. Love
is bad for ones heath.
She spends her days daydreaming about sex,
she knows this is strange, but she can't help it.