amber columns strain through
cigarette-stained curtains, the
patina reminiscent of a faded
kodacolor print from the seventies
the aquamarine glow and
drone of some re-run
cutting laser shows across

I
am not alone

I own the procrastination of
a spring lawn that grew a
for sale sign between two idyllic trees
commerce was stopped at the brink
my agent misses ME
her Mercedes purrs in lust she
sends thank-you cards with alacrity

I
am a social butterfly

even though I check my pulse
I cannot compete with the
death/glory/immortality of the
faces that could be/should be/might be
I am a place-mark, a bent page
an English car on US freeways
no moss on the passenger seat

I
am in demand

another 11th day–another sunset
boulevard-strip-grill-beach

second.

© Tom Watters  4/11/06