On Turning Deuce Deuce
Sitting on metal chairs under
an umbrella, we watch the lightning
crack in the sky like flint.
She takes off her makeup
with chlorine and pink towels,
the rain bouncing off the roof
and dropping like snow
on the patio. I undid her hair
and it slapped against shoulders
made from charred wood.
Yellow lilacs reflect in her iris
and are starting to sag
from the rain. Their laughter bends
like light through soap
and seems to stretch in slow motion
across the table. I recoil and point
to the only star in the sky,
an airplane's tail blinking
red and green.
I roll over in the water,
lounge on the white plastic steps
as a tiki torch tosses dark yellow light in and out of the fake blue pool.
The sky blanketed, the day dragging on,
laughter still sour and echoing ah,
I float to the deep end and count sharks circling around the drain. They grin, and I grin, and the ah comes back to me.
I left her back pressed
against a fence post, the white
splashing across her charred skin
like waves crashing on sand.
And the night continued on
despite our tiffs, headboard knock
against the wall with dark blue
curtains pulled shut tight.
What of time? Eleven on the dot,
time to leave, time enough at least
to hug goodbye, sometimes awkward,
but the neighbors are tossing
in their sleep and ready
to pound the ceiling with a broom.
The red checkered tie hanging
on the bedroom door handle
came loose and dropped onto the floor,
the bathtub emptied, oven shut,
scrubbed, locked for tomorrow.
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