Stretched Across an Unmade Bed by C. Marecic

abandoned to another monotonous afternoon
a sheet twisted—no, crumpled—and left to fend for itself
against a lead gray sky and one more distracted communication
that can’t quite overcome the settling of inertia
upon her empty belly—soft, supple, brown from sun and fragrant oils—waiting,
of course, always waiting, for the touch
the spark that will ignite—no, better to incinerate—these dreadful
eternal moments into little bits of ash and dust
easily scattered by the evening’s freshening sea breeze
or, at least, casually flicked
into a half filled souvenir ashtray filched
from a bar in New York.