We live on an island

I sit on a ledge in my favorite earth tones.

I could be called lucky.

In my peripheral nipples protrude & the woman,  

who I call a "whore" in my head, a few feet away is smoking,

french tip nails glisten with the sun.

She also could be called lucky.

Have you ever had to face the underside of something you loved?

The alarm in the morning breaks us from each other, the day plots

the disappearance of desire until night.

I picture my ex-boyfriend going to Home Depot with his dogs

just to feel a little different.

I could get my meter read,

that way I could meet a new person.

You never know what you're going to get with a new person,

they could be like real prose                                         thievery.

Whispering to no one, “this ledge is the lap of my apartment building.”

I remember bygone ideas like miracle workers and large breasted women.

They hardly exist nowadays, have you noticed that.

I like to remind service workers that we live on an island.

The city floats on island time,

tremulous as hetero companionship.

Now watch me straddle the railing 

of the lap next door

while breeze achieves its goal up my skirt.

I decided I don’t want to live forever

I want to stretch my body out of a window

only to grab the nearest tree branch while whispering,

“hellou” to no one.

I want to know even our limits.