306 Lorraine

by on August 16, 2010 :: 0 comments

Sorry
Mr. Bailey
but your bra strap
got in the way
of my Reformation
eyes

and now I can’t go
five minutes
without mother’s mascara
and raindrops upon the slanting
summer shingles
the paid professional
installed
just last week

as the boys on their bikes
did pop-o-wheelies with skinned knee bravado,
the girls in the street
ran absent-minded
through a wilted patch of forget-me-nots,

and I confessed to a rowboat
in sink the Bismarck
dry dock
for the first time
that I used to bake beans
in my maternal grandmother’s
torn pantyhose
and gaudy brass
rings

and haven’t had a dream
since the good reverend
in a Memphis motel
packed his ideals away
with his toothbrush
in an overnight bag
made of lead

and checked out
unexpectedly.

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