Portrait
Your world feels broken today
Your clothes are baggy
angels steal cigarettes from your pocket
devils pray on your doorstep
your flight to a new American city is cramped
stiff conversation in awkward angles
subway is crowded
packed bubble of humanity
no one is remotely attractive enough
to fantasize about
making tribal train love to
with drums pounding
skin stretched tight over base
deep hollow percussion coursing
like blood
like this machine moving
through underground veins of the city
to revitalize slow senses & push out pain
You are hungry
Your nails have grown long
Your shirt is wrinkled
You can be so unsure
that being even just lazy
takes too much time & effort
& being told what to do is an insult
You make your own drinks
You drive
Your smile is sometimes forced
Your age not easily guessed
You decide you’ll lie less
but won’t be as generous with the truth
gypsies dance in your basement
priests nest in the attic
which campfire will warm you better?
Your voice is strong
You live out loud
Your heart is well-equipped
to handle more
but still only desire shares the bed with you
You bend like tall bamboo in spring storm
to seductive curves in words
Your bank shots have too much english
You have cash
You’ve got wit
You dream in color
sin licks at your window
mercy waits in the alley
You are comforted
by amber waves of grain
whistling somewhere you can’t hear them
Your TV is broken
no one understands
turntable is slightly warped
& this record won’t
this record won’t
this record won’t
stop
stop
skipping
©2000 Lizzie Wann. All rights reserved