The last three weeks Rick and I were together
we slept on a waterbed
surrounded by cardboard boxes
in a sublet bedroom of a co-op in Pasadena.
He was moving to Chicago; I was not.
In the co-op's livingroom,
five people exuded chemical sweat.
They were talking
in loud raspy voices
when we arrived at 6 am.
The waterbed reeked of swimming pool
and sucked all the heat from our bodies
the first night we slept there.
It threw us together in a sloppy heap,
then tossed us apart against its hinged wooden frame.
I woke up in a fugue, groggy, unable to move,
unsure of where I was.
He was beside me,
on his back, breathing quietly.
In his sleep, he denied he was leaving.
Outside our window, a duck quacked
and ate snails off the patio
and shat wherever it wanted to.
forward anywhere lines