I turn up the music
To drown out the voice
Of the tour guide
But I’m really trying
To wash away
The imprint
Of my own hands,
The guilt left in cement
Two doors down.
I smile
At the strawberry preserves
Innocently placed under
The old reader’s library globe.
Australia seems to be
Craning its neck
For a taste
While casting shadows over
The thighs
On dance journal jackets.
All things where they belong
I suppose.
