45 Degrees

There’s a wet handkerchief

With purple and blue flowers

In the corner

Covering my face;

And the fan –

Which feels

Like it’s running

On a three

Although, I’m sure

I put it on a five –

Is creaking air

Onto my body

That’s clothed enough

To be acceptable

And naked enough

To not cage me

In the April sun.

The squirrels are busy

Nibbling at the window,

I’m believe

They believe

They’ve cracked jackpot

But really,

It’s just a layer

Of tanned dust.


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