"...a little help here?"

It's my own heart's fault
that I fall down
every time I see his mint green
car parked outside your door.
My heart must be drunk.
Give me a minute to wrestle it
off the stool into a booth.
Or better yet let's kick it
out the door. Stomp
the red out of it 'til
the snow turns dark
and peace or calm can
bleed back into me.

These Messages

Perhaps Bethan would be better at
distracting me if she wore black shoes
with heels and kicked Bruce Lee style
whenever I tuned her out because
Dukes of Hazzard was on the cable box.

She sure would have herself
a fine man then. Pencil thin
and every day attentive. Taking turns
doing dishes. But constantly bruised
and limping and spilling stuff.

Particularly she would not like
the incessant moaning because I whine
a lot even though I know the Bruce Lee style
kicks are for my own good.
Father was a whiner too.

Bethan would be better if she didn’t
try so hard to distract me. Instead
maybe she could take a lover
or buy soft shoes or sit down barefoot
with me and that darned Daisy Duke.

Possessions

That there is the girl,
the kind of girl
I want strapped in
the passenger seat of my Jeep.
I also want a Jeep.

That there girl
spit right out the window,
right on that blue bicycle
chained to the meter.

That bike there,
I would also like that bike
but the Jeep
with that there perfect
           
spitting girl is pulling away
from the light leaving
me and my Honda
with the wound up windows
stalled on this here hill.

December

White belly
cold as your legs,
wrapped in winter layers.
Long fingers, longer
than daylight, scratch
and stretch. The season
sees those
close eyes open.
A failed rumble
from the furnace dares
the space between us.
These few tastes are Christmas:
blue lips drawn thin,
kisses thin as barely breathing.