Friday, June 3, 2011

The Floor's Not Moving

Nor is the door opening.
The windows closed,
A hum behind the walls
sounds like fresh air.
How would I know
if she can see between
walls I erect?
Moldy old architect . . .
Gimp limper, soft sayer,
big sugar daddy
stays with his mama
feeding from her thighs
in her coruscating hive.
The wind blows me open.

A needle in the big vein.
See how it’s done?
Would you like a taste?
A snort? OK. It does
nothing, like cocaine
moves me not, ever.
Only marijuana.
For now, beer, tequila,
wine if with sourdough.
Most of all the mother
with granny glasses,
pearls that are her teeth,
foreplay in my front seat
moving the gear shift.

Put her old man through
art school, working
minimum wage.
Exchanged her for one
younger once in hand
he had his art teaching job.
Typical misogynist story:
man feels advancing age,
needs increase exponentially.
I say, He had to be
a fool to leave you.
She says, Take me
to your bed. I say,
By the riverbank?

I’m remembering
again. Not the story
you thought it would be,
the one about lost
love, unrequited love,
no love, no money,
that kind of wind
between cracks in walls
I hunker inside,
click clicking pause
click again, into nights
the sun’s plugged in,
turned on, memory
all there is, but ample.

(3 June 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander

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