238 or Light Blue

Her man has a shaved head.
So many questions I can sink my fingers into.
Does she sweat on him like she does with me?
It’s not the heat.
It’s not the heat.
I built her a home in my garage,
open up when we need to be undone.
It’s not poetic.
It’s a plastic bag full of rocks to stay the door.
I watched her undress.
She told me she didn’t care what it meant
- stray dog in the suburbs.
She’s rabid and free, she says.