fuck the reasons
that I am
yellowed newsprint
on your tableside

you never wanted me
to be as much as
a diversionary coffee ring
around that central theme

central savior air conditioning
wall to wall carpet bag
sanctimonious lies

I polished your nails
for the grind
of his pubic
marketing plan

you polished his.
then powdered your nose
fucked me up,
while he devoured

this tragic truth

three chords
framed in cinemascope

my spirit has long lived
in this damp.
now you have become
part of his weak script

that spaghetti-western song
typical in its wail,
blank stare,
banal

this is now your
small story

© Tom Watters 6/18/08

steep and slick,
the avenue’s return
from second guess
and generosity.
asphalt hosed down
like a night time street scene
in a b-movie

in the wait
blood flowed slower,
thicker than it ought be.

as if it could predict the outcome
the painful bubble of helium
pushing up with familiarity
on the larynx

the wait

spring melt
threw off the coat
allowing tulips an inquiry
overwrought
and gilt with stilted breath

you

presented the
best of the bunch,
as a parting

to another…

another.

© Tom Watters 6/5/08

time laughed at the sleep
presented in final hours
examined my fingers
still strong, callused and searching

the still night air,
and a smallish voice
reminded me of aging.
of what is unfinished

across the room
roses fade metaphorically
fleeting, mocking
in a lifespan moment

one hundred and seven years
was whispered in my dream
a farmer tilling diligently
as roots slurped love’s muddy soil

the nuzzling nose
of a neighbor’s pet
unlocks your heart
releasing you from fear’s leash

hope loves you madly
from deep within the green glint
in which you view
this world of possibility

age flies from your frame
on brown and white angora wings
you are nine years old
and I am the same.

© Tom Watters 5/30/08

born onto this touchstone
my path, conch-shaped
spirals begin infinitesimally small
expanding only with growth

father never taught me
to shave
or to walk like a man.
life simply arrives
in blood
in the grinding of gears

lessons of fog
art and commerce
man and woman
what was all,
almighty

every brisk second
consists of countless events
instructive in their balance
vivid and fleeting.

the opening of the eyes

I pull on the clothes
of a good man.
envisioning that treatment

and the cool breeze of
what will be
on the outer coils.

© Tom Watters 5/28/08