Let Go

She's decided to let go
and follow every impulse that sings to her

She has taken on a number of lovers
and fucks one per night
in alphabetical order.

She's detours now through
the old landfill on her way to work,
so she can spend a few minutes each day
flinging liquor bottles at
stacks of cracked windows
to listen to the smashing glass carrillion.

She indulges her texture fetish,
touching everything she can reach,
comparing rough with smooth and supple,
and slack with taut and tingling.

She's picks up every finger-sized object
she finds on the sidewalk
and tucks it into a bowl on her desk.
Someday soon, she figures,
a whisper from a shadow
just behind her thinking mind
will propose a project for her,
and the whole bowlful
will be the key ingredients.

She drops five bucks in someone's hat every Friday
and calls it a cover charge,
even though she doesn't know
exactly what club
she's trying to get into.