The front window exposes all I have.
The hallway hides patiently.
Hardwood floor whines as people drive-by
beating the neighborhood with basslines.
I stand up straight each morning
and look around at the imperfections.
In my three previous dreams
I almost had all your clothes off,
stuck on the buttonfly.
Now I'm walking with gum on my shoe.
When someone says good morning
I grow cold inside out
as if in a snowstorm
where everyone's nipples
standout like city capitals on a map.