in the faded photograph
she stood between two
toe-headed boys

they were an exhibit;
objects of accomplishment.

affection an unexercised option

obedience…
obedience was the job

behavior was the
benchmark
the measure of successful
child husbandry

pabst blue ribbon

ever obedient was she
silent to the dark
she carried in her conscience
provided by a familial love
nobody could wish for

she later accomplished
three
herself.

gave them the affection
loved them

she was objectified by
their co-creator
she remained obedient
more silent, a darker shade

in this sun-less
environment a secret fungus
germinated:
and blocked all light

she drank from
the spigot of
opportunity/religion,
met her betrayal
in the pews

when the parishioner
bedded her husband
she did not blink.

she was answering
to a new master
she confronted
the blue-ribbon demon
who took her
youth, her hope

in a weak state
he could not utter
a defense

he elected to end his time here
the object of an unanswered question

a consequence

the glory of his fruit
and her obedience

© Tom Watters  6/3/07

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