Rolinda

Rolinda is waiting for you.

She’s at the Roosevelt wearing her rubber coat and cat mask.

It’s for you.

She eats a three musketeers and cries like the lamppost–

the lamppost that breathes.

Her M&M arteries pulsate with gazpacho as she waits.

Her rhinestone brain dribbles horseradish; the sunset splits like a slit throat

water encloses her into a cave of winter.

“Forgive me”, she says to the dear, “but I like the ice

It reminds me of my breath, my toxic pulse.

It reminds me of you.

You, as a hole, in me.

and what more can I ever have, really?”