[LAUGHTER]
Darn, I stand up, the other ones come open too down there.
It's true.
I don't know why.
This one is called "Disregard."
And this title, I'm not sure about, but we'll see.
Overhead the match burns out, but the chunk
of ice in the backseat keeps melting from imagined heat
while the old Hudson tiptoes up the slope.
My voile blouse, so wet it is transparent,
like one frightened hand clutches my chest.
The bag of rock salt sprawled beside me
wakes thirsty and stretches a shaky tongue toward the ice.
I pressed the gas pedal hard.
I'll get back to the house, the dirt yard, the cesspool, to you
out back digging a well you could fill with your sweat.
Though, there is not one reason I should want to.
You never notice me until the end
of the day when your hand is on my knee and the ice
cream cooked to broth is hot enough
to burn the skin off my touch.