Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Apparition Poem #154


#154

I’m not blind or slimy, she told
him, you’re just an asshole with
unrealistic expectations. Summer
outside: black and white buildings,
covered in sweat. The picture evens
out (roughly) to brown. She swoons
at the idea of touching. I’m done
with her, he tells himself, strained
to keep his hands off: prime real
estate. But the parents-built picket
fence is stuck up his ass. Someday
he’ll jounce it out, impale her on it—
right through the heart. I wonder,
she chimes blithely, if you can define slime?