the black palms sway

andreceipts pile up in a bowl on your nightstand

andthe tiger rug by your bed says “i’m wounded, but i’m grrreat!”

andyour paisley eyes nest into mine

andyou lay eggs in my wound like an African Tumbu Fly

andyou pull my hair wringing every last drop

andwhile you wash up i collect the errant strands

andsprinkle them around your apartment like tinsel