Forget your diet. We both know why you came here.
You ogle my browned buns,
my prime-beefcake physique,
and you cannot stay away
because I’m built

Light spills into the hotel room
like ill-prepared lemonade from
the sky’s 5-cent stand, the one
all the hung-over grown-ups
have been trying to avoid.

Orlando blinks

“I don’t know what to tell you, our last exterminator wasn’t worth jack. He bumped and bruised his way through our home like a Neanderthal on steroids.”

“He was a cute Neanderthal from what I remember.”

“Eh, I don’t like the cleft chin thing; it reminds me of a plumber’s crack. And when someone’s ripping your kitchen apart and tearing up your hydrangeas, it’s pretty difficult to find them attractive.”

I pray to the patron Saint of Redirection, who shows up juggling sardines and a large red apple he takes a bite out of every revolution or so.

“This life,” I say. “The sheer weight of it…”

“Is that you?” he asks, letting the silvery circle collapse at his feet — slipping the apple in his pocket. He’s pointing to an old photo. “No, that’s my older brother, when we were kids. I’m the one…” I turn and see he’s now rowing across the living room in a small boat. “Calm seas,” he announces, skirting the TV. “I think it’s going to be a magnificent voyage.”

“Folkstone looks a lot less orange today,” says Denise. “So that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s still not quite on message about the school funding thing. He told the Nurses Association that his plan would cut their property taxes by an average of 31%. But our data shows that 64% of nurses in our state rent rather than own their primary residences. And as you know …”