Finding a Page

It’s funny for no reason.
Watching the writer, smoke,
breathing out of her arched,
Jewish nose.
Behind her pierced ears
are chains of blonde hair
and sunglasses define a stern brow.

She sees no color on the street.
All the cars are smoke.
As she walks for the door,
her mind grows legs,
wonders to the last page,
stomps a fly and scribbles
“The End” with its collapsed black wing.

Her blonde brother or partner.
The man in the red shirt.
The boy with the same haircut
-like a soup bowl- since he went to church
with his mother
and his face was pearly
and cheeks grew no hair
but wore the smile of youth
or a face painted dragonfly.

The man in the red shirt now,
wears a smile the writer gave him
on the third day they met,
reads all the crinkled pages
from the trash bin,
rewinds the writers thin frame
and washes her face with a fine jewelry cloth,
for her features are sliver,
her thighs, empty cardboard boxes,
filled only with the thoughts she can draw in English.

The writer is always alone.
She sips coke, like its the ocean.
Dances like autumn, the dead leaf's,
anyone could see are pages in her notebook,
and smoke was always the inspiration,
carving her world of madness.
The jellyfish and the snowman.
The common place gardener.

She lives her life so detached,
with him in the 7th ring,
spinning with the clouds,
in front of the sun,
not by her bedside,
by the island shore.

They are at a cafe table.
Him reading, her dreaming.
Each carrying the weight of
solitude.

A Work Day

I worked yesterday at Annie Ruby's Cafe from 9am-3pm.

I washed dishes,

thought about life,

made fruit salad,

smiled at an older man,

dropped a glass bowl.

I ate half of a cream filled donut,

ran into the door,

laughed at something that wasn’t that funny,

cleaned the front window,

opened all 4 fridges,

reapplied lipstick,

sifted powdered sugar,

opened a large can of hot fudge,

restocked the waffle cones,

told someone something about me,

took a lunch break,

wrote a ticket for a brownie sunday,

forgot to serve a unsweet tea,

got a head ache,

chopped celery,

ate a lemon cookie,

put away the cool whip,

changed the sink water,

knocked over the Dawn dish soap,

met a girl who couldn’t speak,

brought a woman some plane chips,

made an orange aide,

took a bathroom break,

washed romaine,

sung a song in my head,

brought the cook a Dr. Pepper,

watched a youtube video,

scrubbed a cookie sheet,

heard a story about beer,

talked to my mom,

dropped an ice cube,

laughed at something that really was funny,

saw a man in a red bow tie,

wiped off a table that looked clean,

stirred the carmel,

went looking for mayo,

confessed my love of Michael Bubble,

looked -unsuccessfully- for straws,

got my tips from the day before,

talked about my work schedule,

chopped 5 boiled eggs,

saw a yellow cake come out of the oven,

heard about a death in the family,

took off my shoes,

put them back on,

remembered not to take life to seriously.

A Room of Madonna's House

I can barely hold my eyes open.

And all the icons are staring

in deep prayer

and the bones of their folded

hands are crunched.

The jaws of untrained hounds.

Like the reflections on the water.

The notes of a perfectionist.

Gray, closer to wedding dress ivory,

Gray hair brushed back.

And yellow, yellow walls

that fed the flowers,

hacked from the roots of

the memorable, the missing

the gray haired woman

feeding the dog,

halting the rain,

bending the air,

with grace like a kitchen knife.

She painted Christ's fine garments

and gold around his head,

like a flashlight,

held by the sparrows.

You were the unknown Pasiso.

You painted gods son,

hung above my cradling bed.