Minibar Fireball on the side of the highway.
I run the road rather than feel the sparse grass
and dry insects scattering. I can't navigate
so each outing is a quest to find home,
consider if that is the same sinking motel.
The mosquito that sticks to my sweaty face will regret me
as it’s palmed down. I will hurt myself to hurt another.
The sunset gnats, monsters of soft light, follow me to the porch.
There were times we lived here among the beige leather
moving between rooms that didn’t belong to us
drawers filled with someone else’s past
when the stress was near to killing me and you read all day.
We drank harsh peaty scotch, pressed the soles
of our feet together under the blanket. I couldn’t tell
your pupil from your iris in the dark.
And there are rottweilers there. He calls and asks
if she’ll pretend to be his wife, he’s gonna buy
a house from an old couple in the Rockaways. Sure
why not. Two other women have already turned him
down. They borrow rings from his brother and his brother’s
second wife. He crafts a backstory on the drive—the Caribbean
honeymoon in May—she cannot know if she likes it.
When they get there the rottweilers lunge
for my mother. She squeals and looks to him
waiting to see if it’s funny, sidles back toward his
rust-colored 1984 Toyota Camry liftback. He tells her to cool it.
He needs to convince the owners that the house is for his wife
and family but he’s gonna sell it. Aspiring real
estate man. She has a nasal laugh, long teeth,
checks eyes for a living, is used to older men.
He is short, receding hairline, playful eyes. He looms
over the couple in their wood-paneled living room.
Her gaze stays fixed on the dogs pacing by her feet
as he grins at the couple, winks at her.
On the ride home she rolls her eyes. Oh yeah, you’re clever.
She breathes, his arm slung around her seatback,
the other out the window. She guides them with the map
he steers the car with his knees.