hastily parked cars
tequila from dusty shot glasses
hunt-and-peck a substitute
for what we both wish for

and yet I marvel
under the spell of your
dry smooth skin
and your curious smile

I speculate on our ability
to bullshit ourselves.
you saw him treat you less
as if need was of no consequence

and I saw you sleep.
lips freed from purgatory
randomly unleashed from wishes
I wondered “what if?”

I’ve grown to apologize
for compliments rendered
they don’t believe anymore
still I was compelled

a trail of breadcrumbs
find my way on my own
from this island vacation
in our city of novacaine

© Tom Watters  11/17/07

in deep violet hours
pondering into my heavy hands
I spell the word intent
watch it dance across my life line
cross the t over my heart
indicated and indicted

some time ago I drew these reins
a part time horse thief
but the spook in your eyes
forced an evaluation;
a question of nobility
an answer unfolding

strange calmness
pitched entrapments to the wind
laid me bare and called me out
stopped the painting of
a thousand self-portraits
camera obscura bent to plead

thunderclouds clapped
spoke to me four words
ancient to my future
spoke them with you
thousands of times, near and far
flowering and seeding at once

my hands ponder that word
hold my worth
the simple cloth of change
rivers that lead me home
barbs that can no longer scar
and the surprise

of a most unexpected treasure

© Tom Watters  11/14/07

surrounded by perfume,
sighs and thighs
probably, properly, destiny
not to be
a semblance of romantic
interspersed with
fucking antiseptic Coptic
bliss—in your world
fingers wishing for
the “come-hither” in pairs
holding breath, rhythm
frantic with purpose
joyously sparse and
instructive terrain

and him
and you

like a set of 2x4s
swords, boards
clapping and rusting
at the nails
that enclose this
pine box
on a tiny evening
over here on this side.

© Tom Watters  11/10/07

she dances in the sun’s light
never tanning herself

she is a mirror at the
slightest angle.
providing the greatest
reflection
not blinding with
the glare of judgment
or the braggadocio of triumph

you try to read her Braille
and in return you are read

a mirror that shows a
familiar gentle angle
a pulsing dance
vibrating soft messages
of calm and care
instructions that are
revelatory–not admonishment

you will hear her song
surely you have heard it in yourself

it mirrors what others have
almost said to your face
sweet, melancholy and modal
a time signature
impossible to pinpoint, yet
it will remind you to chorus
all your finest attributes

as she leaves
she leaves behind

you adjust your rearview mirror
slightly at an angle
hoping to catch one more look
as if that will suffice
you breathe your lungs full, so full
begging that her smell
will never leave your car

© Tom Watters  12/4/06