| cellar door |
[01|07|06 9:07pm] |
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music |
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a long december; counting crows |
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the wheels on the bus go round &round. i hold my backpack tightly between my knees, reading my ticket twice and three times and then four.
before this, i had never spoken to an african american &realizing how sheltered i have been (living on a back road among mountains) i suddenly forgot how to act when a black woman with hair all shades of purple sat down next to me. iz seat taken? she said. i leaned against the window and our elbows touched for the entire length of seven hours.
at the greyhound station in clevland, there we were again. and there were your eyes and hands and elf-like ears and the chicken pock scar just above your left brow. and there was us.
i sneak like a secret, on tip toes, back to the guest bedroom where outside the window the morning is yawning &your parents are asleep just down the hall. i study the walls and all the old flower arrangements from when your mom owned the flower shop (with a name so clever as the peddle pusher). had i not been hungry when she cooked us dinner
i would have pretended to be.
had my muscles not been tense from the long ride
when you wanted to make love
i would have pretended they weren't.
the cat jumps the bed and cries. she sleeps in the crook of my knees until noon, until you wake me up and we walk to the store for cigarettes.
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