Mousing

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The neighbors are fucking again.          
One slab of meat slapping off the other:          
greedy, porcine. He grunts, she grunts.        
         
My cigarette heats a fingernail      
bringing me back to my own frigid hands.   
I ping it far enough to land in their garden.        
         
She squeals; her Polish is music. I wonder  
if she sounds like that when he's out of her.  
I see my empty bed and my eyes fall  
cuntwards.        

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