Sunburn

I.

On the stairs

a wasp

(I think it is only one)

has,

on hot days,

made vicious angry

vibrations.

I had thought

that we had

an arrangement.

When the little

bastard

planted pain

onto the top of my foot,

I swore

loudly

and continued my plodding

with

my left hand around a bottle of rum

and my right hip supporting

a three liter box of wine.

They were taken to freezers

or refrigerators,

and to avoid further throbbing

I found a box of Arm and Hammer

baking soda

in the door of my kitchen

Kenmore.

I had to clean dirty dishes

out of the sink,

then prop my five small toes

and their base

under cold water,

then bathe it in

white powder.

Like a miracle

the rhythm subsides

as fault-line cracks emerge

with drying palliatives.

It does not hurt now

but tomorrow the swelling will

remain.

I won’t

hold it against

him.

I

would

probably

try to sting

me

too.

II.

There is a crack

in the seal

of the bottom right

corner of the door.

The floor

is littered

with

clothing, books,

and my movie collection

Chairs stand

and the directors

of an orchestral

voodoo rite-

they call themselves Man Man-

invoke a legendary set of gods

as the cheap speakers

pulse.

In one

(no more or less)

chair

she sits

with a book

of Bukowski

(a dead man longing for escape).

After a little while

even cheap wine

bursts through its skin

and tastes as though

it were

a masterwork.

Mine rests

in a

glass bottle,

originally made

for a low-fat, creamy

mixture of coffee and milk.

I hold it

with two fingers

in front

and a thumb behind.

Soon

I will find

it necessary to again

go to fill it,

all 13.7 fl oz.

I am quite good

at this.

It is perhaps

to be expected

after years of practice.

Her toes rock with the music.

Outside of the deep

bricked

walls

of my home

a city bus

rumbles

until the light

changes.

It will be back

at some point.

III.

They are tearing my building

down.

There was a woven welcome mat

that would be encountered

when the stairs

were ascended.

Once.

Over weeks of wind

it was buffeted,

elementally spun

to a point

slightly closer to

my door

(cracked seal)

than to hers.

A well meaning

stranger

or possible

lover or friend

kicked it,

yellow and red threads and all,

until it sat

squared to the ceiling

on that concrete

portal to my cavern.

One day I had tried

to look

out of my kitchen window.

The glass was obscured.

I’d never been curious

about the view before that point

and so I was surprised

when there wasn’t one.

My neighbor

(I don’t know her name)

one day

brought the mat back

to her doorstep.

When she moved away

she packed it

with the rest of her things

in the back of a U-Haul van.

They are tearing my building down

but there are pieces of it

that those bastards

can’t have.