Red and striped,
infinite circles,
leopard dots,
rising into one mistake.
I wish sunburn
was a story,
a skipped class,
a fucked libido,
a spine of white powder.
Branded cows
can't lie in pounds
or dehydration
or their tightest leather memory.
But lying out here,
barely dressed
a football
crawls to my side
and I appear undaunted.
A sleeping beauty
to the outside convex,
a battered sister on the inside.
That football has been pounding
for years.
For weight,
for dead legs,
for stolen credit cards,
for jail nights on my birthday,
when does home become Penn Station?
Pick pocketed by trust.
Burns are the first scar,
but sometimes lie,
I put sunscreen on
and still get fried.
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