this time of morning
is all coffee cups
ash trays
umbrellas
night hawks
and diner counter tops
overturned shot glasses
and the way tom waits’ hair
moves without regard to his head
as romeo is bleeding
father’s day
is the homecoming dance
for this grown woman
made from herringbone brick
daddy issues
a wedding march return
deliberately stepped
to beethoven’s violent concerto for violin
toward the white columned mansion
along walkways
of gray flagstone facts
the gossamer temple of my dysfunction
surrounded by iron lace gates
fences drooping
with blood red azalea intentions
a corsage of deceptive bougainvillea
climbs my wrist
wearing a gown
made from the transparent fabric
of a penchant for older men
who hail from anywhere but my garden district
chosen out of a police station line up
in the irish channel
my ill fated princes and usual suspects
who were crepe myrtle framed
not one of whom turned into my father
vagabonds
poets
musicians
actors
gangsters
swaying priests
clever pimps
and common thieves
even a shoe salesman
who was 17 and finding reasons
to touch the ladies’ thighs
whilst i was existing
in a new world elsewhere
still cutting my baby teeth
i’ve grown tired of their flowers
and the scent of poorly masked death
two people fit uncomfortably in a casket
time has given me an alternative
housed within clean lines and reason
but occasionally
wearing a veil of futility
my
horse drawn thoughts
return to the beautiful south
ken burns following behind me
filming a sepia toned documentary
about the brutal unreality
of it’s sleepy mausoleum streets
“Now cracks a noble heart…”
it’s not my place
to fear for you
and yet i do
i do
