I want to listen to Shane and Nora make love let’s schedule around that let’s listen to the breath escape in short sniffs and gasps I can’t hear the bed can you hear the bed? I can’t feel the hot skin I can almost feel the hot skin can they hear us through the door? are they thinking of us like we are thinking of them? are they thinking at all? is there hair? is it good? it sounds good I want to be wrapped in sheets instead of standing here holding this umbrella how old are they anyway? they seem young they aren’t lying they are trying so hard to be quiet or their sex is just quiet is he in her? what are their mouths doing? how are they situated? I like to lose my mind in sex are you into sex? do you talk during sex? I like to lose my name and my life in sex I like to float around the room I like how Nora doesn’t wear make up I will stop wearing make up and I like how confidently Shane pitched his movie before I should pitch my movie like that I like this time of year cracking the sidewalk ice with my boots going to new restaurants it sounds like they have stopped or it’s too muffled do they mean to include us? I like how it sounds I like the rush of sex how it melts the clock I think I can hear it again Shane and Nora those religious sounds of asking While I was a tremendous teenager, you were still reading the unauthorized biography of Bowser you were holding a pube to the light you were pressing your silly putty back into its egg I was already part of an art movement when you were asking when your birthday was you were attempting to sing a jingle you were tasting your bath water I had the gall to put all my money on black you were talking softly to your toys you were asking the World Book about sex I was gunning down the highway while they shot my documentary you were forking peas all afternoon mulling over a bubble in your wallpaper nervously saving your allowance you were playing Rock Paper Scissors by yourself I couldn’t be bothered to respond to my fan mail but you were choosing a middle name for your rabbit you were trying to digest yesterday’s strudel you were still in your mother’s pouch you were pretending tic-tacs were illegal you were putting your ear to a puddle that’s why it’s hard for me to relate to you now because I have a night club named after me and you are still looking for your Lego’s head Dream Boy I play in the eyes the eyes are TVs the eyes look out to the hillside I flip the channels I run through the body I watch the mind spark I write in my own thoughts I stroke the brain absentmindedly I’m gross covered in tears and blood and whatever else but I sleep in the balls I struggle up the ribs I sleep in the mouth I can’t die I’m a fairy in a boy I’m listening to the droning of who’s talking to him I can read by the eyes the eyes let in a little light I can escape through the ears but I just beam out I ball up into fuzz I burst in the air like dust I stretch over him like a tight suit the boy is mortal can’t do anything but live I grow bored of the boy and make things out of the boredom I predict the boy I dream up his dreams and press them in it all feels like maintenance his friends drone on and on the fluids! the mucus! I need to bathe away from beings I need to spend a summer in the garden like last summer but always a dimwit intrigues me his voice dragging like someone from a war a stiff dream trailing into the bar I want to see the civilization inside him where the ends lead never is it as enriching as a book always he meets a being a woman from the supermarket or his own staggering self in the mirror I should be exploring tombs like Elsie does but the smell! I can’t imagine Deodorants grow bored of their smell they breathe it in and can’t think of anything else an Unscented one takes on a metallic scent they overwhelm themselves and want to run out but last forever and slowly lose their minds Rachel B. Glaser is the author of the poetry book "MOODS" and the story collection "Pee On Water." For more information visit Rachelbglaser.blogspot.com or for less information check out her tweets. Previously: Rachel B. Glaser's Three Digital Quilts and Four Poems.