Self-Portrait On Break From Getaway
My scorched earth hair
pleads with the sun
for color to camouflage.
She waits while watching
more episodes of The Office
I've never seen.
I let to drive by
our parking spot twice
in not yet our jeep.
My world's a yard sale puzzle
This is where I'm laid out
another while.
I walk to The Who's "Slip Kid,"
to mark the days till forced
to say I'm almost 40.
Too loud for the hotel, yet
if I go in to Miles Davis,
she'll ask who's fumbling at the door.
Ticking down to pick up
take out, my turtle neck
first sees Spring sun
I rub its back, remind myself
I need a comb-over
of the soul.
New rhythms help me forget
my bowels make more free style jazz
than my fingers on her nape.
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