Someone else's home

What the hell was I wanting to write the other night in bed?
I was hearing things, music in my ears, making up drum beats with my eyes closed,
words were spilling from the sides of my thoughts.
"Maybe the noise is coming from outside," I hoped,
realizing once and for all maybe I am delusional.

Something about the moon;
Setting as an upturned crescent, large, golden, glowing
low in the midnight skies over the Gulf of Mexico,
collecting snow like a tea cup.
Freezing, killing, coming full circle
on the fourteenth of the month.

Would it be appropriate to call this irony, Adam?
I know you've explained it many times,
it is wet and does not stick like I'd wish
Maybe I should wear my nightgown inside out
or not at all.

Not in a strangers sheet, though they may be washed and dried
at the laundromat on Central and 28th.
A man came in while I was reading, questioned me for quarters,
starred at my thighs crossed over one another on the plastic seat
until I told him, could he please stop.
What I really meant was, "Fuck you for making me feel uncomfortable in my clothes."

It's funny how these things come back to bite you in the ass,
Serving as a reminder I am alive,
alive, alive, oh alive!
Feeling spring time in Florida's February,
new, inspired, uncovering and developing.
Morning and it's new softness are waiting.