Thursday, May 2, 2013

Better late than never


We float free of tangled moonlit landscapes
pillowy empty word balloons
with matching tails
gauzy satellites, our shadows
a feint crinkled smudge   
to soothe an August garden of bedclothes
heavy with bellies ripe on the vine
pale twining legs twitching
with misfired current
taking a moment
to undo bedeviling knots
cinched in a long days confinement.
The nine year old inside of me
never tires
of a convulsive dance
before the faulty mirror
all hen house elbows and knocking knees
tongue out for balance
chock-a-block at the sink
while you check your hair out of habit
only half expecting
to see monkey see monkey do
then it’s down the stairs
eight at a time
for a peek in the fridge
clucking at the teeming veldt on top
the rigging of corner cobwebs
making a mental note
nagging grain of sand
to irritate the oyster of a new day.
I need eight letters
for a thing of beauty
straight man
delivering my lines
from the bare stage of the unfinished
Times crossword.
Yourwife, you say
darling, delivered deadpan
to the ping of a wink with a tang
sharp enough
to drive me to my knees 
begging for another
twenty-five years. 
One turn through the house
then it’s back up to bed
tracked by the dog
through the cracked dawn of one eye
two bendy brass horns
nestling down into notched velvet cases
last notes of the nocturne
burning off in the flare
of another morning. 


No comments:

Post a Comment