I am painting my nails a violent red,
waiting for Harry to come cursing
through the motel room door,
shirt out, hair too greasy,
mouth snarling like a beat up cadillac.
I am blowing on my fingers,
listening for that comforting sound
of the key in the lock before he lurches in,
tosses his jacket, stalks the refrigerator
for the last dregs of milk.
But the truth is, I don't even know any Americans.
Least, none with eyes that glint like Harry's,
and I'm not painting my nails in some neon-lit room.
I'm sat up late at my computer, watching icons
stagger about the screen like drunken cats.
Waiting for something to happen.
Back in that motel room, things are kicking off.
Harry's turned psycho, lost his memory;
he's tearing up dollar bills by the bathroom door.
His eyes look like they've been wired
to the walls' many loose electrical sockets.
Here on the bed, feet curled beneath me,
nipples poking out from under my sheer green vest,
all pink and hard like cats' noses,
I remember my pledge.
Time to split this joint, blow this town, make for the border.
That'd be all well and good
if I knew where the border was,
or indeed
what fucking country
I am meant to be living in.
