falseland provided
safety ropes
and pleasant shades
of saintly colors
like a Vatican clown

always there
always telling the
sweetest lies

her morphine
was not an addiction
more a curseword
making one long for
the sweet taste of soap

an admonishment with
no recourse
no mirror
no toll
no.

sang its
siren song of slumber
in a breath of pity

falseland’s anthem
a run-on
death sentence
in a minor key
to a bad apartment

lawn sculpture,
self-winding clocks
and the reminder
of delayed mortality
and hidden decay

the wry smile
of an agenda
you are not in this game
you are it

players change
and the window fogs
and the tax is due
the tax is due
death won’t help this hot date
there is a line of
pinch hitters down the street

your stand in
falseland
has run its course
the lease was written
in disappearing ink

© Tom Watters  10/11/06

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