She is the every other girl
in this painting of a California
sitcom of a room.
She’s constantly kissing her hand
with her pocket
and her pocket with change.
The ruffle of her jeans between her thighs
greet the eyes of all her suitors
and all who rival her,
all who envy her
inside this cool suburban
shutter of a home.
She’ll make her mark inside a bedroom
in the hall down from her sisters,
a private public orgy of amnesia.
Still the salt is crusting on her lips,
her musty breeze is spinning
while she sits and wonders where he
put her cocktail, then
his cock.
She leaves and then returns
with more of her.
More gloss to go around
on rims of glasses filled with gin
or bottled water.
Next in line she’ll fall into
the endless row of women
she’s imagined as herself,
who follow in her footsteps
as she’s done to come so far
to next, to nothing.
