The starlings find the feeder and toss
seeds on the steps. March rain comes in
sideways, in pellets, in buckets, or not
at all. Back and forth. More, then less.
Your hairdresser says the cherry trees
will have pink blossoms come Spring, is
pregnant and puking in a bag and the bush
at Silk Road. I carry your product back
to her new place downtown with bricks and
fake owl, the walls painted Clinton brown
and ice cube white. She opens the window
using a harpoon as you squint at yourself.
This time you want to be more involved,
she wants to listen more. I take notes,
work to give your hairdo a new name. She
shakes her tarp at us, does a slide cut.
Our dog itches as a hobby, stays on leash.
And in the end I can't take my eyes off you
in the mirror in the chair as your brand
new bleach blonde hair's being blown dry.
2011
No comments:
Post a Comment