USA

ACBroome@hotmail.com

last night i was thinkin

it ain't easy
not the sittin
waitin uneasy
rockin of bein all
alone
no where to go
alone
losin myself in red
uncertain
flirtin & barkin
with the boys next door
& their black dogs
that ain't
stirrin me around
like collards
in the pot after i
add Tabasco
it's the love
of sweatin & rollin
around & in between
leavin me thirsty
for lemonade & a salty
kiss
exhaustin my easy
my big easy
way of sinkin
me into you

Tad's Epigram

"I'm dying from a disease only young, brilliant, bisexual men get," he 
said, as his cigarette ash grew longer and the paper disappeared revealing 
the transparent air as grey. The parrot on his right shoulder slept with 
his eyes open. Maybe, he was dead but clung to the man's clavicle out of 
habit. "It kills softly like an overdose of Valium. It pastes your mouth 
shut. You suffocate as you dream." He's an orphan with short wiry legs 
shaped like upside down baseball bats and the only neighbor I have 
who doesn't wear eucalyptus as after-shave. His wife died. She misread 
the tea leaves. She thought the zigzag arrangement of steamy chamomile at 
the bottom of her hand painted china cup read, "danger." The black 
and red dragon on the outside near the handle sang her name in the style 
of Boy George, "Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Camellia. "She
used to read the first line of each article in local and state and skip
the rest. She wore tight shirts so the seam stretched in cross-stitches. 
Her skin poked out between the threads like psych-ward faces that bulge 
out of window's bars to perceive freedom. "Before I die, I want to confess 
to all the unsolved murders of 1999," he said. "Charma said that would 
give the families closure." The parrot perched open his beak. No words 
came out, only a squeak. "He has laryngitis from all the cigarettes he 
smokes. He loves those English sticks that are long, brown and thin like 
a good European fag. He hot boxes when he takes a drag. The cherry hard 
glows like the Olympic torch. That's no good for a tropical bird." I
looked out the window through the fog-cleared circle in the middle of the 
pane. The telephone poles were slick with ice. A mime slipped on a stretch
of melting snow black from car exhaust and exhaled tar. It was on purpose. 
A man in a dark suit and hat that covered that side of his profile that 
faced me flicked a nickle high up in the sky. It was still on the way up 
when he out of sight. The mime really brushed himself off and mouthed, 
"Thank you." It was another December morning in New York.

© All Copyright, 2000, Anna C. Broome.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.