nude in stanzas

at the supermarket i
watch you at the
cashier as you retrieve your
wallet and this amaz
ingly thick wad of notes that
i like to imagine belongs to me for
no other reason than

i am jolted from my
sleep in the middle of the
night on the sofa where
i had fallen asleep just thinking
of you and listening to tunes but
suddenly i remember that
there is no point because

"you are not here", "you
are not here" i think to
myself as i sink my head into the
sink

pyramids and fibre and serotonin i
have given to you from under
neath me and i have
made your basket full with
potatoes and more than
rice and from the bottom of the
freezer i say to you now

"give me your dough", "give
me your dough" or anything
else anything to pay me for my
everything

santa monica

because it's life first, things second, no?