Nothing in the Living Room Looks Wet.

Nothing in the living room looks wet.

I sold wet in the garage sale, folded it nice and pretty like,
snickered when the lady walked away like it was meant for her.

Hotels can never talk about their feral cats -
their wild horses - their strangers who start like music -

These ribbons here, they are smart mouthed -
waving oh so eloquently in the air -

I'm sorry to say so many jumbled wet things,
but that's the only thing I'm good at today.

The day started like any other, the doors in the house listening
to all our tired stories and say simply, the sea is dangerous.
That's it? The sea is dangerous? I'm instantly disappointed.

I didn't ask for your red houses, your draperies mud clamored and
enduring.

And as if to close with a scene, a summary of all we learned from this -
The dog how out stretched and waiting -
a belly scratch in the sand, just this once please please so very please?