lips pursed on the car ride over
your car
not his

tracing the pane of glass, cool
to the touch
playing with the beads of rain
formed in the foreground
the halo of condensation
accepting the union of
my heat, and the bleak playground
under the tips of my fingers

Im almost never the passenger

but this
has never been
about driving

upon arrival I repose
in the green room
the room in which
my heart grew up

so fast
so sure
so convinced

this house where you sleep
is his

from window panes
that undulate fog
in the rhythm of my timid exhalations
there is a taxidermist building
standing in defiance
of the apartments and rental housing
metaphoric and defunct, done creating trophies
what am I doing in love here?

I saw his shirt on the ironing board

clearly this
has never
been
about driving

at least not
in any
direction

Im a dead man
I am

© Tom Watters  4/8/06