Polaroid Portrait

She is wrestling with iTunes,
and it is late.
She is glancing with longing,
and fear,
at the boxes littering the floor.
She is tired,
you can see it on her face.

Her hands are tensed.
She is listening
to a ghost's voice
and a ghost's guitar.
She is remembering
what it meant.

Similes and metaphors,
a body wrapped in literary vomit,
a body kissed by ink.
She is thinking,
dear body,
I hate you.

She is world-weary and exhausted --
you can see it on her face.