Muscat Screen to Screen

Someone had to walk the dog,
so I went first.
Six hour flight thinking
...god would have given us wings.
Dad, downstairs doing the lunch rush,
it's so fucking hot.
Fairly rooted to the spot
that's cool marble
on my back,
slug slick from the shower,
sometimes cracking the curtains
watching the new construction
across the way,
bleached gravel beyond which
men are graceful
as sticks as ballet with bricks.
Feeling like a trophy up here,
waiting for Ben online.

Garden, bogged in sick abundance,
gravel for cars to
slip wheels and skip stones
on wide driveways.
Cleaning up vomit outside,
before the dog eats it,
oh that party perhaps,
who visits Muscat in the summer?
Where's Ben?
Has he yet fished for the screen,
should I play him something,
at least soundtrack all that
stress, the heat of nothing to do.