I have the best part in the room, if nothing else.
I can look out of the window
at the tree which sometimes contains
pigeons, and the neighbour’s window frame which rarely is void
of natural debris.
Sometimes when it is quiet, the empty smoothie bottle in my bin
will slip downwards
amongst the meaty caress of papers, and the rustling reminds me of
the squirrel we rescued, cared for
and killed unintentionally.
Sometimes when it is very quiet I recall letting a stranger
lick the back of my teeth before I realised
he wasn’t just trying to lean in
and compliment me on my cat shoes.
My forehead stings because of the pain
relief I’ve slathered upon it.
I’ll lead us down a stream of consciousness
if you’re not careful,
and alienate myself.
Mainly then I wanted to describe how much I wanted him to stick
his fingers inside me,
sticky, as we careened down the dark country road,
fog lights reflecting off signs, reflecting off my
McDonald’s smoothie container.
We’re on smoothies again already,
and I haven’t even got to
the best part yet.