I wake up just to shake
from dehydration
in the dark room
I’ve been waiting in
forever now.
My only memory of newspaper
is soggy in its plastic bag
that dangles from the door knob
in my spinal chord.
The parking garage exhales
morning fog like chimney smoke
where all the windows broke
after the thunderstorm.
The shards of glass in empty rooms
are kicked around by runaways
looking for somewhere nice,
to spend the night,
alone for once.
They know their phones are watching them
while looking at directions
to get further out where tides connect
to power lines.
I cannot just forget the
late night white knuckle dice.
I put it all down for a final hit
to get my destined money’s worth
and waste it.
That’s where she finds me
in the silver light that passes through
the window screen
where the cicadas scream at everything,
and she tells me we can talk
when I am more awake.
All her arms collect me
and I am taken back
where no one knows I’m sleeping.
She puts this to some music through
the speakers at the corners of the room
but doesn’t start it from the first song since
the playlist knows exactly what I’m looking for.
Teleporting Typewriter 