Regular Tuesday

watching a stupid French slasher film,
about a serial killer who in an opening scene
dumps a head from his truck’s driver side,
and in the end we’re supposed to believe
that all along he was the lesbian student,
staying in the farmhouse with the friend
whose family are all butchered,
and whom she watches showering.

why do I watch this trash, I think,
shovelling Genoa cake into my maw,
I should be reading Dante by the moon.

outside the streetlights fill the rain
and leave little patterns behind, between stones;
fine mists of white and yellow light compete,
an urban portrait, serene as one of thick jungle.

I put my head in an upturned palm, reflect:
weren’t both of them stuck in the killer’s truck?
how could she be in two places at once?