by Shawn Scott Smith
The Pointer Sisters only ever got to 12
I'm confident in my youth,
If youth is mid forties, greying.
Her half my age, but ready for home,
A home, any home,
“Let's talk about the place we could live together?” said over a bagel.
Cream cheese made of marbles.
My speech, garbled nonsense
To continue sleeping together,
Like lines from a movie,
A classic with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly.
We kiss till the credits under a blacklight, the vape battery smoking.
I
only
want
to
wake
up
alone.
A call from my brother,
A single note of passing,
A funeral, it rains,
I see the widow, and wonder,
If she remembers the last time they made love?
If
I
Could
Tell
You
One
More
Time
That
I
Love
You,
I
Doubt
You'd
Believe
Me.
Read a biography of a fast food mogul,
Eat garbage for lunch, but feel American again.
Sing along to the sugar on the radio,
Blah, blah, blah.
Pay a tax when the funds go nowhere
Much like the last relationship,
You grabbed me from behind,
And it felt good, and it scared me to leave.
Syrup for breakfast,
Poison for lunch,
Processed lactose for dinner,
Whiskey to slumber.
Galaga, shoot everything.
Doom, shoot everything.
Love everything
Shine on everything.
“One,
two,
three, four, five, six
Seven, eight, nine, ten!
eleven,
twelve”
Sesame Street taught us the numbers, but not how to count,
Miss Arrowood, chalk on board
Ruler on flat hands,
Jaime is crying in the corner, his snicker met with a masochist teacher.
And they all failed us, in a society bent on success.
But at night when I lay down,
I dream of winning the lottery,
Not because money solves everything,
But to feel anything at all.
I
Could
Write
Better
Poetry
But…
What would it matter?
Sights on the Dekalb Oasis
Take a left turn into oncoming traffic,
The rain turns to snow this time of year.
Where are you going this winter’s eve?
To Chicago, Il?
Or down south to the fields of glory?
I can’t eat any more fast food,
Forget to wash hands, while investigating bathroom stalls.
Looking for a new friend, to write each other,
Pen pals to compare notes on lost movie trailers,
When the lights go low,
Do you want to rest on my shoulder?
Or bite into me with recklessness?
Loneliness awaits for those on the road,
Broken down, waiting for help,
A flat tire, a busted engine,
A metaphor for the journey,
Just get me out of the Delkab Oasis.
****
Shawn Scott Smith is a writer of a bunch of published poems and short stories.
He lives in Asheville, NC, plays pinball, and likes to meet new people.
All of his adventures are documented on his website at luckycreature.neocities.org and most social media spots @luckycreature