10-04-2010, 02:25 AM
in the dream, a red sofa -
soft as wrinkled fingertips
after an hour's bathing time -
an empty marble fireplace
and large curtained window.
outside, the sound of rain
like dogs with crippled
voice boxes. I hold a
martini and once, when
I was young, high heels
adorned my "dainty" feet,
and a faux fur scarf
encircled my throat,
like a strangler's warm hands.
Back then I thought
that love and sex existed but
in one pairing, that pots
of similar design, adrift
on unrelenting seas, could
never touch, lest they crumble.
Now I know better and
wear a bow tie, white
shirt filled with starch,
so it stands more erect
than a war monument,
as footsteps ring
beyond the door, like
pennies in a church
poor box, or fists on the
breast of a drowning man.
The brass knob turns -
a plastic ballerina
spinning one last time -
we embrace like Bogart
and Bergman. The dream
always ends at this point.
soft as wrinkled fingertips
after an hour's bathing time -
an empty marble fireplace
and large curtained window.
outside, the sound of rain
like dogs with crippled
voice boxes. I hold a
martini and once, when
I was young, high heels
adorned my "dainty" feet,
and a faux fur scarf
encircled my throat,
like a strangler's warm hands.
Back then I thought
that love and sex existed but
in one pairing, that pots
of similar design, adrift
on unrelenting seas, could
never touch, lest they crumble.
Now I know better and
wear a bow tie, white
shirt filled with starch,
so it stands more erect
than a war monument,
as footsteps ring
beyond the door, like
pennies in a church
poor box, or fists on the
breast of a drowning man.
The brass knob turns -
a plastic ballerina
spinning one last time -
we embrace like Bogart
and Bergman. The dream
always ends at this point.