3rd Floor

There’s a mirror
in my bedroom corner.
[framed with almost gold paint]
I can’t bring myself to hang it.
It’s too heavy.
I might place it
on an iron easel.

My face is a portrait too
--dusty mirrors are kind.
Soft lighting holds
my bronzed face and
golden, grapefruit neck.
Blemishes are well-placed.

Home is a black bra floor.

There’s mint gelato
in my crowded freezer.
*flecked with chocolate chunks*
I can’t bring myself to save it.
It’s too good.
I might finish it
tonight for dinner.

I don’t always cook
— two rooms for one.
My sofa says I’m doing fine.
I hope my TV says the same;
she’s the quiet type. Maybe
I will fix dinner this time.

Home is a microwaved minute.
...
Published in Q/A Poetry
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