Globe Street
Build me a home in the shape of a question mark. Free up the
shutters for long-seeing eyes. Salve me a redwood straight down the eaves, and
plant a checkerboard on the front porch.
Burnish the banister to a fine chameleon hue. Wallpaper a
bedroom where I can sit straight with someone I love, flip wide the curtains
and watch the traffic slipping apart the sneaklight of dawn.
Don’t tell me the neighbors are wax statuettes; I won’t
believe you. But pipe in the music of the stratosphere and leave me to lie in
the hot tub, soaking up molten rocks while crazed children take steak knives to
the heads of my tulips.
Bill me quickly; my time is almost up. There is always one
car on the cul-de-sac with out-of-state plates.
Notes: A surreal trip into suburban xenophobia. My first-ever prose poem, and the beginning of a fascination.
No comments:
Post a Comment