a sunset every night

she hangs mirrors on the trees of neighbors.
they cling to views like magnetic signs to the sides
of soccer vans and dry heads take to wet hair.

reflecting passion on laundry night
she gets view. either summer reruns
homeruns
stocking runs with salsa stained bellies

pressed

like

soggy

bugs

one against the other, splosh sweatily.

Later. Asleep. Dreaming of better
dressed, better messed ways and
situations if caught loitering, peeking
and appreciating the swoons of next doors
knockers.

She spins in her slumber bumping
the lumber headed board of waking
to the same sad ass sun rising.
Again.