H2O

bubble bath. I wish it was deeper. And claw footed. Not adhered to the wall with monocrome tile. Lying on my arms i submerge listening to the ping, splish, trickle of voices slittering through the pipes. I imaging them as a whisper against my bathroom door, "May I come in?"

But its only a fly who keeps me company though this bottle of wine. I've named him Frank., for no reason really, other than he will die here, in my home, so I thought he should have a name. Frank.

Interstate 510. Exit 1B. New Orleans. I have no tub. No shower. Just a bottle of water, a toothbrush and the sideview mirror. Objects are closer than they appear. "You have to leave tomorrow miss." I offer him a rocket dog, he’s on duty, parking attendant, but it is New Orleans, so he tosses the cap and takes a swig. "Tomorrow," he repeats as he walks down the ramp. In the morning the curtains will part in the windows of the hotel across the way... i'll lie here in the bed of my truck and watch them towel their hair, plant kisses on the nape of a neck, and stare blankly into the horizon. I am invisible to them. Have been for years.

I first discovered this power in preschool. But more on that later.