the closet door complains
a bit as
I strike pose in
the modern-day totem

her shoeboxes
kept
she gives to herself esteem

mine is kept
in the box
the gray one
it has two metal eyelets

souled out
to the company
of women named after
personal traits

a perfect fit, mine
a size seven
-and-a-half
mine wears well
in
the boardroom

yet breathes fuck me
in a familiar harsh whisper

I am but that whisper
in that box
a selection
a provision

she shuts the door
darkness folds its
shroud around
my foolishness

I wait my turn
amongst the
Kenneths and Salvadores
breathing through the eyelets

© Tom Watters  9/24/06

somehow the
lions
came to us
showed us their soil
showed us their drink

regal and
talented
and arrogant
not needing accolades
not needing the fools gold

we travel
and we toil
and we drop
and we flop

the lions exerted a dusty sigh
flashed a grin
drew us in, drew upon our
unforeseen skills

held a mirror up to our desire
they were a mirage
they told us what we already knew
but we were not bold
enough
to open these cans of worms

© Tom Watters  9/21/06

this gaze falls
as a welcome
rain

creates familiar scents
patterns of absorption

it opens the book
to that page
dog-eared,
where you left off

we need the rain
but we fear the storm

the story lacks
a strong leading man
someone who will
throw a slap
forties style
like Clark Gable

the rain would create
puddles
and the wet
of sloppiness
and
of love

I trace a lazy thumbnail
across the page
and light the rain
from my eyes

© Tom Watters  9/15/06

floors in this building
speak with local knowledge
squeaks that betray
conveyance incognito

the grayness of the
second call
echoes
problematic and urgent
ringing and wringing
trying to bring to its charge
the hollow message of
diffusion and reduction

a half squeak towards
and I slump back
I dont need any more “good” news
your personal triumphs
tend to leave me wanting

rusting

your latest optimism
has become a noun
giving you
taking you and
taking you
robbing me of subtext

birds of a wide variety
grubs, snails and fireflies
all visit this thicket
to feed on my heart
in the gloaming

I wonder about the end
what embrace
waits
for my jealous shit

world without end.

© Tom Watters  9/2/06