secret motel vs. the afterlife
Wind won't let the grass sleep tonight. I stand under a lamp post, cup my hands and try to catch some of the light falling to the sidewalk without making a splash. Wind claps a screen door against the side of a house. All the windows are dark and too dirty to admit daylight when the sun comes back around. These rooms haven't tasted light in years. Wind can't find a way in to wash away the dust settled in the throat of this house. My cock is shaped like a key. I unlock the house. I won't let the wind in. I sleep in the throat, listen to wind blow outside and harass the grass. Soon the sun will rise from its hole and re-spool the wind. The grass will sleep. These dirty windows will repel the light. And I will sleep on the stairs in the throat of this house, my key still fully cocked.