new poem

The Sandpiper

She paces outside
The Sandpiper Inn, jaw shifting,
pupils pinned, arms itching under
her black peacoat.

I arrive out the side
of a '94 Ford Tempo,
so thrashed I pass out
in the hallway

of the wrong floor.
4 am: she calls
repeatedly to no answer.
Maybe tomorrow

I'll remember crawling
from a cul-de-sac in Covenant Cove,
covered in urine, repeating
her name. I dream

of my room
at the Sandpiper
littered with empty liters,
cut straws, and Lorna's

crumpled leggings.
I also dream of
things outside my room before
I wake up to her high heel mashing

my genitals.