The sallow cowboy
asks you to dance so you
put the limes down &
accept. Flat in his
arms, tracing the
baseboards, faces leering
around you with beer
bottle noses & hands
made of foam. The room
queers quickly, blending,
then spirals, & the cowboy’s
hand on your back is a knob,
a way to open you up, & out.

A huge box that once held
a plasma screen television

now lies, overturned by wind,
on the bone-white cement

in front of an urbane townhouse
Bloated with styrofoam,

the box will wait there for
six days until trash pickup