north beach

Your body is bent
over the sides
of a high jump bed
that you and that other guy
have scaled
leaving me curled at the bottom,
half covered
half insane
with exhaustion.
And we don’t listen
to each other
with music in one ear
and out the other
through white wires;
And the phone is ringing
the red phone, the hot phone
the eagle phone, ringing.
and that other guy
just stare at it, blankly
and then smile at me.
I answer it
“It’s the president,”
I tell you,
“he wants his brain back.” 
And we all look to the table
where it sits
as we have used it for an ashtray,
butts crushed, but still glowing
in the frontal lobe.
I lay back down,
a dog at your feet
ready to sleep. 
And then the doorbell rings,
you and that other guy
kick me off the bed
and I hit the floor with a thud,
mumbling under your breath
about it being my turn. 
I walk passed the television,
It is on without sound,
streams of violence and war footage
casually displayed like cartoons.
I answer the doorbell
in my underwear.
It was north beach. 
I shout to you
“Hey its north beach,
and its for you.” 
You shout back,
“Tell her I’m not
fucking here.” 
She tells you,
“I fucking heard that
I watch her big white
ass saunter down the
I close the door.
I climb the bed. 
I tell you and that other guy
“move over bitches.” 

By Aleathia Drehmer

Aleathia Drehmer was born in the 70's to set of wanderlust parents. She has an odd sense of humor and likes to be observant. Her work has been published in places such as: Laura Hird, The Cerebral Catalyst, Haggard & Halloo, Debris, Cause & Effect, Beat the Dust, and Silenced Press. She is currently the editor of Outsider of the Month on Outsider Writers and co-editor of Zygote in My Coffee.