[10]

Locks & Keys

My suitcase only zips one way, your red shirt from
Indiana lolling out the teeth, licking the tiled floor
with every wheeled kathunk. I wouldn’t say I stole it,

but you might. There are eight hundred and eleven
steps from the train platform to the platform of your bed.
Eight hundred and twelve if you count that half-step at the car.

I’ve got a straight-up twenty with a phone number on it, an
alabaster rifle stuffed with ash, a palm poured with coffee.
Sugar crunches between my teeth. No one told me

anything. Arrive at eight, leave at eight fifteen only
makes sense if the clock still tocks. The ding-ding
of my internal organs are rusting to a slow pursuit.

Someone come and rescue me. In rainboots and slickers.
Carry a red umbrella. I’ll know what it means.
The storms have begun to drain.

~

ATLAS:

Image taken with iphone
Words written on the floor
Time Taken eight minutes
Brain on pizza, snicker-snack, brownies in the oven
Ears on traffic

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This entry was published on January 10, 2012 at 8:25 pm and is filed under January, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “[10]

  1. ginaginabobina on said:

    I want brownies. Yummy words, thank you. My umbrella is polka dotted.

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