Jo

On a bed that creaks, she listens to the rain, and turns to speak, it’s not my tune, she says, the words unused, the walls washed green, the moon in train, knows where she's been, Paris and sunlit avenues, not somewhere fake, or nostalgie de la boue, wrapped in a cotton sheet, she slips to the jakes, it reaches her knees, outside a Magnolia blooms, this bed's like a cradle, it murmurs in the room, you can smell the sea, from many a life taken, somehow she squeezes, her features release, a face for the day.