Her dream house doesn’t have a number.
Just write 123.
Put the letter in the pink plastic mailbox.
She doesn’t open her door for anyone anymore.
Not even the mailman.
There were too many Kens one time.
Too many at once.
She takes things slowly these days.
There’s a bar in the basement.
It was there when she moved in.
Kind of ‘80s, Tiki
Brown, red, and tan—
kind of like the Regal Beagle.
“I don’t have anything between my legs. Do you?”
she asks the bartender.
He is always there.
She goes by her full name now.
She’s never even been to Malibu.
Umbrellas by the pool in electric blue.
Little yellow sunglasses with star frames
that scratch her face.
Pink-tiled bathroom floor.
A tiny canister of Ajax in the corner of the shower.
She doesn’t bleed anymore,
she never did.