AND VOMITS AS HE
  REACHES THE SURFACE,

yellow flecks of posterity,
canned, reeling down
a poorly lit staircase.
the street signs are sagging away.
damp, luxurious mallards are
curling their toes on your welcome mat.

there's a bag of fritos where the keyhole was.
i guess i'll have to wait.

_ _ _.,


there's some kind of must in the air.
somebody stole something.
right here.
i'm sitting somewhere malevolent
and my patience is starting to fade.

i feel like a grown woman now.
foggy.

-

i'm restless and i'm hungry.
the bag of fritos is empty, of course.
just hanging there.
empty.
i'm not even sure why i came here.
you don't have a keyhole
and you don't have any fritos.
i'm considering going home.
how am i supposed to just sit here like this?
how do the mallards do it?
i watch them sit and i smile.
they look almost lonely.

----- -- ---

i fell over.
what time is it?
my watch is scratched.

i guess this was pointless.
but my sleeves are caught in you.