I’ve done my
free time.
it is like a
sly wink
mocking
for joie
that you assume
is a reward

a house arrested
of pity
full
showing a sequined
tin cup
in the outstretched hand
of the
well-attentioned

adjust/unjust
intentions
standing at the
corner of  croissant
and bowflex
acerbic and
glowing with
smirk

I ride up
on able
reptile shoulders
aptly adopting
the camouflage
hiding in
the caring
the stance

free time, you see
is neither…
a vile
alarm clock
attached to
fun- stapled and spindled

currency spent

© Tom Watters  6/1/07

thirteen is just luck
seventeen was a coming of age
almost twenty four she said
and this caused a remote
response

back to a day when
vocation stood second
arbitrary and coarse
I held your hips to my face
felt your weight fall
and fall

I was always there to fall on
fall back on
I was some thing
not some one
but I melted on these
snowcaps like ice
in a double

incongruous and
incoherent with a
stupid grin…
Like art and victory
her arm was miles long
as was this fucking road

and not a sign in sight
and not a rulebook
and no morals
and no story line
and no cliffs
and not a word said

only the goosebumps
on the back of my fingers
leave no prints
no lineage
sorry baby
I have no soul
or purpose
or real pulse after all.

© Tom Watters  5/25/07

matter-of-fact
and dismissingly
transitory
this thin fabric
that cradles
and caresses blithely

light blue
in color
and in nature

let this blow
on the wind
she discards it like
the ticket stub from
a summer movie
predictably lost

time is swift
and achingly
invisible

never declares
or commits to print
on thick parchment
words come forth
from fingertips
that are eagerly blind

not for sale
yet peddled
as vital

I hear with my eyes
build this Babylon
on a bed of sand
ignoring the cautionary
huff and puff
of parables past

her dreams
scuffed out
on chalkboard

I meld with her
in a sea of my own
electricity and hope
misguided, thirsty
bluntly out
of sync

longing for
the touch
that never comes

hawking

© Tom Watters  5/13/07

Monica,
your defenses are strong

you clutch your adopted daughter
close to your breast
ever mindful of the
wayward tendencies
of  children

Monica, I know
I am under your suspicion
your men have not
been kind
or trustworthy

you bloody my face
and yet I must persevere
dear Monica
I will pay your tariffs
until my means
are exhausted

lay down your arms,
my adversary Monica!
I came to show you strength,
that my heart is pure, I will
lay my armor at your feet

your jewel is under my skin
my ears are parched for
the music of her breath
my eyes for
the tranquility of her gaze

Monica, your gates are strong
you place your foot-soldiers
in tempting positions
they will not dissuade me
they cannot.

I am driven on
by this ancient foolishness

© Tom Watters  4/25/07