Thursday, July 1, 2010
Nursing Home Romance
She sets her sappy sadness down,
lets the bliss-blisters smooth her features
back, somehow, to when she felt younger,
back when she held her figure better
than she ever held her liquor
and boys lined up to hold her hair back,
spewed love-lines, vomited adoration
that looked like every love they'd masticated,
swallowed, played like it was cool to look emasculated
(but ultimately in control).
She sets her sappy-sadness down,
frowns at her faded features--
fruit salad lunch made of pear shapes, sour grapes,
and wondering if anyone
would still take the time to kindle/rekindle
Me, I'll play the love-struck frog
that goes for the throat, leaves bitemarks
in shallow-loving listless afternoons
playing "this house is a caslte with
a drawbridge made of plywood"
just for an excuse
to still call her my princess.