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

lips pursed on the car ride over
your car
not his

tracing the pane of glass, cool
to the touch
playing with the beads of rain
formed in the foreground
the halo of condensation
accepting the union of
my heat, and the bleak playground
under the tips of my fingers

Im almost never the passenger

but this
has never been
about driving

upon arrival I repose
in the green room
the room in which
my heart grew up

so fast
so sure
so convinced

this house where you sleep
is his

from window panes
that undulate fog
in the rhythm of my timid exhalations
there is a taxidermist building
standing in defiance
of the apartments and rental housing
metaphoric and defunct, done creating trophies
what am I doing in love here?

I saw his shirt on the ironing board

clearly this
has never
been
about driving

at least not
in any
direction

Im a dead man
I am

© Tom Watters  4/8/06

turning the key
the symbol of modern virility
its tumblers were supposed to ground you, make
you somehow more appealing
like a strong jaw-line

it has become an occupation, a charge
a bottomless mirror of what is missing
a desire to placate inanimate masters
to bring to its softer places
simple joy …simple

rain shows up as static distraction
reducing gravity to the current distant port
as wireless wisps of goodbye breathe
open mouthed and loosely woven
the lock taps you on the shoulder

destination awaits with open arms
this stage entrance is turnkey
a world of finger sandwiches
mornings of hot tears away
the front door is weary

weary of the four-poster snacks
the ego, the silence
the technical commitment
its hinges are longing, and they groan
a beggar’s song

you stammer your promises
a fresh coat of paint
guilty roses at best
it awaits an eagerness—an anticipation
on both sides of its threshold

© Tom Watters  3/29/06

The weather came out of a place that she had not touched in a while
a sudden shift, and she smelled the dampness of rain on creosote soaked ties

bulbs beneath parched soil pushed at her feet, ready to feel her breath
earthworms stretched threadbare and then thick, and heavy, and oily, and persistant

cardboard cutouts that she created could not withstand the spinning onslaught
this diorama would fall under its own soggy weight; yarn, buttons, and glitter

this place, this forsaken grotto, was now steaming with the grip of the weather
the daily news unimportant, the open windows vivid, the songs now so much like movies

the steady tick-tick rhythm of routine gave way to a pulse in a fully different time
no 4/4 or even 7/8, this new signature required the tala master of Indian classical music

fragrances forsook their meanings, expressed themselves in the storm as roadsigns
the map blustered away long ago and the path slithered onward toward trembling

the weather drinks, drinks of the pool slowly, deliberately, and delicately
it lifts, it gives, it erases, it writes. Mounting its tempo, it nurtures softly

the gift of the weather has now put a destination on her brow, once heavy
a postage stamp whose denomination far exceeds the necessary rate to get her there

traffic just buzzes, phones merely ring, accountants dress in bright serapes
she sees no beginning, she sees no end… she is the eye.

© Tom Watters  3/25/06