Fuck
(My newspaper stale, and sinkwater running)
This one pads around the tangled sheets lumpy
piles of too-quick-shed jeans and missing socks,
cigarette wobbling, stuck to her lower lip
and the occasional flicker of her inhales:
a blush in the not-yet-morning.
(My coffee's not strong enough)
Man's wallet in her hands, the bills between
yellowstained fingers, pocketed, she drifts
out: (two floors down I hear his door creak shut
from my frontside window watch her
ash my porch, off towards the corner bus stop,
my pancake soggy but I'm sure) he's
still sleeping beer-heavy at sunrise.
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