my eyes search
around this room,
all this naked comfort,
my clothing strewn
in such abandon
and I feel I’m nearly home.
a shirt sleeve, its colors fight
afternoon breezes that blow
in from Sunset Boulevard,
weakly flapping, one cuff button
clicking an idea repetitiously
against a scratched chair leg.
insistent LA scent
loiters
on skin, in my hair.
my socks,
uncharacteristically
flung
like used condoms
after happy endings,
drape limply,
damp,
one over a lovely replica
of a once famous goddess,
another licking the last
of yesternights tumbler
of ice and rye.
clad in what little
remains of modesty,
I fade into the sofa
with a laser
pulling Laurel Canyon
from its DVD,
grasping zinfandel
from California’s north
in an inappropriate glass,
and thinking (again),
almost home,
I’m almost home
when I vanish into furniture
and ride waves of mostly domestic
chemical enhancement
in a fantasy Hollywood fantasy.
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