That's right. I am
the kind of girl you call a looker
if you're old and shitty
enough to talk like that
&think I'm a girl.
Seeing what I'm reading, you chortle,
"When I was your age, bondage
was the Jews before Moses."
Just a little herbal crank from the Co-op
& the swimming pool's a mirage
buoying those weightless little
speedfreaks. That's mine, on the diving board.
So while you're waiting for an answer to hurl
itself from my tits, how bout
a drink, Mr. Chubby So Serious
Grandfather of Nincompoops.
A fruity one if it's not too much
trouble, I got a strawberry jones
you can't imagine.
My past? Pills, police,
the whole sideshow shut
& later expunged.
Tho while I'm squatting over concrete
it comes to me, the past
is the crying of your future.
& you do what you can
to spare yourself.
Once I got taken to a hellish
little wax theater, no it's called
a wax museum. So I'm throwing up
my appetizers & cocktails
onto the feet of this thing
that almost looks like Frank Sinatra,
but doesn't, and shit, I'm pregnant.
I'd been sucking back the toddies
& stewing in more reefer
than your average port-of-call &
I'm thinking, yeah right, spare
yourself, crying of the future, &--that's him
my boy, on the diving board,
& he's fine, so you never know.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts