by Arlene Ang

The rules keep changing.
Drizzle slobbers apart the arm

I've propped on the open window.
I've tried to dry my face on the sleeve,

but the raindrops keep coming.
I tap my wristwatch in the manner

of a woman crying for a doctor.
I'm waiting for my hair

to stop growing in the car.
It could be I've forgotten to turn off

the tv again. The gas station
nearby is all lit up.

It has eyes that I'll never have.
And an important-sounding name.

The gauze on my left hand
glows. The first time

I shot a hole in the dresser
thinking it was a burglar,

there was no one there.
There's no one here either.

Except for a dead cat.
And rats eating the dead cat.

Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, "Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon" (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.