By Pete Simonelli
Ana
slips deep
into the corner
of the sofa
lights a smoke
and curls her legs
fast among the crumbs
and coins
saying little
or nothing at all
to withstand
that deepening stare
that whips up
a pass
through anonymous
but inviting
climes
and comes perched
despite
her critical stores
of boredom
One
frail shift
and that
brittle perch
comes undone
collapsing
one blink
at a time
into the low
opiated rumble
since departed from her ears
once she really
snapped to, hissing
shit!
suddenly mindful
of the fresh
nail polish she
daintily avoids
smudging
despite her burning
cigarette
and mother’s
mothering calls
she could
be rising
again
padding barefoot
into her room
like that
shutting the door just
like that
to
him, to
him turning
that strange
blue
