as you scrape
a thick layer of ice
from your window,
leaning over
the hood of your
brittle car,
you think about
oranges and sunshine.
long languid beaches.
there's a woman on the veranda,
let's call her Lucinda,
she waves with a mimosa in her
hand, maybe she's
applying lotion
to her long arms
and legs. the sky is blue,
there are tropical
birds in the trees.
maybe there are monkeys,
but not the wild
scary kind. good monkeys.
the kind you can feed
a banana to without
them biting off your
hand. you keep scraping
your windows. your feet
slipping as you move
about the car,
the front, the back,
the sides.
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