tortuga dreaming

artist of ice steadily advances across

the windblown yards, off the lake

into your living room. good thing

you're not home-not much you can do

about the tumbling, growing crowd

except open the front door

to usher it out like that time in high school

when the party got  out of hand

because out of town parents

have that effect

on underage drinking, even though

technically your boyfriend, 

  eighteen, is an adult so the keg

was a no brainer along with

the requisite  attendant asshole douchery 

on a saturday nite over

 winter break and it makes

no differnece  you didn't

 invite all these people here

 they are lakeblown ice 

that pushes through sliding

glass doors, tramples the carpet

spills gravel and grass on the couch

and daddy's favorite wingback chair,

ruined with a stain right

in the middle where tatum fucked jerome

while she was on her period 

just so you would know 

why he left you but

you can't do anything about it from

where you are, on a little white

vacation, roaring in on a seven fourteen

pm flight, so chill, like siberia

on a vacation to the tropic of cancer.