SINCE SEXTON
Lately, I paint my fingernails and think of
nineteen year old Louie
prodigy design engineer
whistling at the coffee machine.
As yet, he doesn't come looking for me but
I'm familiar with his
prick. It comes, one way or another, in showers and
bed sheets, young ladies and possibly
doughnut holes.
So it goes.
He's kind of cute in his young man way. Maybe older
than I think but I'd still
clobber him on a date. So well I know
my older woman ways.
And this is the lightest thought which has
struck me since
June.
In October, other than thoughts in which Louie is
contained
Sexton is dead.
My father's farme spirit goes on, dying. My friend's
cervix
corrodes
with cancer.
My lover lives
with his family
in L.A.
Other than the respite of remembering
Louie exists
in my mind
uncomplex and
innocent
in small ways
a change of fingernail paint makes life
easy.
Like smoking a cigarette without the threat
of cancer.
2007-07-28
15:36:17
·
9 answers
·
asked by
margot
5
in
Poetry