I.
i must have seen twenty napkins surf wind
along the filthy street,
an old lover’s musk finally washed off my hands
so i folded them onto my breasts and wept,
the fuse is short for
foster homes and
college dorms and
evaporating rain.
all the women shout, let that be a lesson to you
(was it brown or blonde?)
(was that a book in his lap, or a napkin?)
i have turned away from him so many times.
i’m a whirling dervish.
he’ll sit and listen
as i quietly revolve under the bed.
II.
crooning from the shower,
his voice sweeps out and floods the floor
wets my socks and shoes-
licks me til I’m cold
and then he leaves me old.
baby, before you
go, press into my chest with
your palm. burst this
watery body at every
orifice. you can
leave the city
and me
to take care of each other.
[copyright Taylor Roberts, 2004]
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