Mug Rings

In my mind, with and when
writing, I'm cross-legged
and tapping
my pale foot against the bright
wood floor.

A cigarette tacked between two
anorexic and bawdy fingers,
slightly
blue from ink.

My dress also pale,
wrapped about me in drifts of
floral 50's snow
against rib
and knee.

Catching my thumbnail in my
teeth, staring
absently at the foregrounds,
wasps vooming by
to file me towards the gardens.

They'll know I'll get out.

My commentary on these works,
when I awaken
and become again
what I am on this sofa or
bed,
is, to say the least,
borderline cheap.