the black palms sway

and
receipts pile up in a bowl on your nightstand

and
the tiger rug by your bed says “i’m wounded, but i’m grrreat!”

and
your paisley eyes nest into mine

and
you lay eggs in my wound like an African Tumbu Fly

and
you pull my hair wringing every last drop

and
while you wash up i collect the errant strands

and
sprinkle them around your apartment like tinsel