Awake. Dark room, light shivering between slatted tears in sleep’s cloth curtain, no,
It’s not cold.
Frozen eyes, shuttered left, off kilter for Sunday morning’s churchyard calm, dazed and scarcely hunted.
It feels encrusted shut, my eye, right, no left–at the shake of a quiet mind’s head.
I’m not sick.
It’s just…just…not like a Sunday.
Swollen, itchy, red…no, I feel pink but not like a wisp of ultra violet setting rays into the dusk.
Like pulled cotton candy, taut, sticky, stretched to disappearing.
I have pink eye.
It’s red and puffy, and the itch that can’t be scratched for the contagion that she brings.
Do I call in, call up, call out this small disease, this lodged discomfort, virulent invader?
I look it up.
Warning signs, good sense and no regrets; I confess to all I anticipate in a day’s walk-about,
“I…I have pink eye. No, I think my hands touching my eye, touching you.” Can I see you without touching you?
Will your money be repulsed, sweet-toothed craving not crusty but cultured,
the dissonance like shimmied NO, a gulp, grimace and gag.
I should stay.
But I go, and I lie without guilt, smile without repercussion, moan without regret and leave, sailing
like the marine layer over our beach city, puffy, cloudy, windy and cool-breezy could care less.
I’ve planted seeds now.
The growing season well nigh past still yields a muddy crop, sunken, aphid-riddled, shriveled dawn.
I took camera digitally clicked snapshots.
Thick waist sloped into fleshy hips, fortresses to meaty buttock questions to the sheets.
Am I asleep?
Or am I just pretending you loved me kindly, tenderly with your chestnut grin and molten eyes,
clear, clean and molasses.
No, not pink. Ink. Like night, pintip pupil black.