on this bed of straw
the answer that I have
dreamt of and
felt in my momentary grasp
the balls of my feet
sanding away at the parched adobe
pondering
transposing to a lower key
the tempo
away from the flapper’s jitterbug
into the sultriest waltz
I dont weep for fame
it never was envious of me
its parlor games
so practiced in the mirror
the who of it all
so void of an honest kiss
a kiss whose tongue
never speaks to its heart
because they have
different shopping lists
creating salvos
instead of the art
that used to stem from
a hot fire
I sink into
I breathe into
this bed of straw

© Tom Watters  8/17/06

the lichen-covered rocks
stood stoic and damp
mute to secrets, confessions

they had seen others
the others before me
and during him.
listened to their sighs
felt the pleas set down at your feet

I gripped at their cracks
tried to get a pulse
felt a timeless cool moisture
moving at a crawl

the red in your lips
preserved by the snap
in the early fall air
I gripped between your thighs
found your pulse
in the tilt of your neck

you drove down the
curves with urgency
ignoring the buzzing
and the cliffs that you could
dive from

biting your smirk,
in control
looking toward
the confusion
and back at
a legacy of ifs

and into
the whats

away from index

© Tom Watters  7/28/06

it must’ve been the music

unkind at best
to the power that you
once held
you cheat!

unfolding a tenuous wing
sorrowful, brittle
marrow and sap
snapping in the coming

drawn inexorably to
the solar flare of
passion and mistakes,
passion and mistakes

unconscious influenza
brought a carcinoma of
your own damned design
that picture
that frame of influence
that two-car-garage of shame

I stand at that edge
and look at the one foot drop
that would have been a chasm

when I was a moral
of the story
in a unsurprising play
that ran for years

© Tom Watters  7/19/06

praise this queen
or jester or goddess
whatever this blur
of plates and glasses

of applauded spills
and eloquent yessir
flirtatious banter
and large dreams

no stranger to gossip
she has been the
purveyor, and the conduit,
and the cause

the regulars
the just-passing-throughs
she is a quick judge of
lottery ticket choices

she tacks a room
as if it were a regatta
looking for the prevailing
opportunity in the swales

explanation is quick
rote and sincere
insincerity is left for the dollar
the most necessary of pariahs

there’s always tomorrow,
walking through the front door
there’s always tomorrow
there’s always always.

© Tom Watters  6/24/06