Hot and Cold

It's curled on the floor sweating
and less than beautiful without
any paint or razor or oil on it.

It's driving in the hot sun
and singing and smoking
and mostly alone and soft
and young.

It's wet and cool and slippery
in what remains of a very hot
eventful, frighteningly lonely day.

It's laying down on a foreign bed
and reading and smoking
about koi so pale and perfect
and swimming.

It's going to rain sometime
and rain and rain and rain
and it will rejoice in the water.

It's lost its reasons for sleep
and living and smoking
and breathing and fighting
and loving.

It's invisible and smooth
and cold and perfect
and smoking and reading
and breathing in and out
in and out
and smoking
and hot and cold
and loved and not loved,
not really loved.
And not loved,
not really,
not at all.

It's okay and isn't it what it isn't and
It is it, isn't it?