in the living room,
his pitbull eyelids fluttering
as he dreams of puppy things.
this place is lovely like the 90s,
but smells like cigarettes
from the last tenants,
and we even ripped out the carpet
to put in a skate ramp
that leads to the kitchen
where the beer is for breakfast.
sleeping here is both
anxious and exciting,
where as nights are full
of punk rock parties,
days are spent trying to figure out
her name and where I put my keys,
but it doesn't matter because
the door is never locked.
I write poetry in the backyard
while Dave is at work, where
he sells white people bonds,
but really can't describe what
he does to me or anyone else.
I feel like I am in college again,
but learning more
and not feeling bad
about ditching class to get high
or chase skirts downtown,
or go surfing at sunrise,
and skateboarding at dawn.
on this particular night,
we all sit silent and watch tv,
flipping back and forth
from basketball to Bonanza
for some reason,
and I only know two of the
ten people here.
the brown dog wakes up
and knocks over my beer,
no one moves or cares
as the now-exposed concrete floods,
and the dog barks at bats
fluttering their wings in the backyard.