She sorts laundry beneath the nauseous fan,
Draped in an unevenly cut dress of flowers,
In her lovers black racing socks,
“Do you remember when we first moved in and we thought it was cold here all the time?”
She asks, “And we were like, I don’t wanna pay for this SHIT!”
I tell her I remember with a smile,
and keep my head focused.
I still haven’t changed out of my towel,
This water-slide of hair traces my back
And I feel the drops cascading.
She says to the radio
Shakes her head.
But I almost like that song.
Like the stomach flu
And second hand smoke
And various forms of rebirth.