Sleep Corrupts Her

.
[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_4/wheeler.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

During the night, the mascara
she was too tired to remove
migrated to her cheeks in an onyx smear,
crusted in the corners of her eyes.

Her skin gleams feverish and tight,
etched with lines the pillow made,
like sand after high tide.

Once ruby lips now resemble
bruised plums and, parted
slightly as she snores, reveal
the stink of whisky and decay.

Good morning. She yawns, blinks.
Good morning. He smiles a few inches away,
thinks to himself: She’s never looked
more beautiful than she does right now.

In Between Places

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_4/wheeler2.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

Brownstone, Mediterranean, hi-rise, Victorian, Craftsman, clapboard houses, 60s stucco slums, basement apartments.

Late, and then Past Due, and then Final Notice, and then Duraflame logs in the fireplace for heat and homework done by kerosene lamp.

Moving boxes, masking tape, Sharpies, vans, both U-Haul and Ryder, pickup trucks and station wagons, self-storage units.

Eviction notices, piles of garbage, toys left behind: white stuffed dog, two years’ worth of Lego blocks, pink and purple roller skates with glittery butterflies on the heel. Boxes of books, camping equipment, a sewing machine never seen again. Two puppies tied briefly to a parking meter (crying brought them back) then later abandoned for good at the pound (crying brought a smack).

Rooms, and couches, and fold-outs, and cots, and floors. Lots of floors. Cars, two motels, a friend’s mother’s double-wide, the shelter that one time.

Airports and train stations and subways and freeways and bus stops and parks.

Always leaving from, never going to.

Always in between places.