untitled 07.06.06

top floor conference center:
some asshole’s playing piano,
and he’s good, too, but
that’s beside the point.

The point is, I’m stuck here.
I keep thinking about
these guys I knew,
was close to,
and how we’ll never be again
and how I’m not sad about it
but fascinated by the explosions.

* * *

Two dozen girls have gone by,
perfume flip-flops long hair
lip gloss short-shorts

this is my summer

nostalgia envy pain highlights

box of magazines shredded for
collages, recipes torn out
hapless wife in me
keeps trying

* * *

sun’s going down
bayou is a murky watercolor
weeds and cypress knees
the windows look washed-out

how I feel

firm cold feeling of muscles seizing
sculpture of white-hot horizons and throttled moons

25 more minutes of this and
I’ll be screaming

* * *

piano man’s stopped
construction on campus has ceased
it’s quiet, but for keys clicking
doors squeaking
day’s end ghosts sinking
into their sofas and barstools
tinkling of tv stars beer bubbles

* * *

I don’t even give a shit, and
look what’s happening.

a girl has begun to blossom
into pretty
but isn’t sure how to cultivate

skirt too short unsure
bad posture
humped up my father would say,
hiding behind her hair my mother would say
no bra, tank top,
flapping sandals
summer colors in bag, clothes, foundation
self-tanning tart

* * *

what else is left at the end of the day:

carpet vacuum laundry pile
dishes dinner watering plants
in this southern humidity
drowning in the thick waves
of water

pain chases pain

lemon-colored shirt of coworker
focus drawn blinking red light on the phone
sun sets against the
curve of my spine
twitch in my hands
day of days and hunger

why don’t I bring my own

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MWL
07.06.06