“You can write me letters.”
In raisins on the kitchen counter,
You are at work, making an honest living,
I’m washing down your gin and not recycling.
Dirty looks from the cashier at the bar,
Won’t get her far if she’s shopping for a smile,
Mine is out for awhile, ordering pizza with friends
Pretending to be a hairband at the park,
Some girls fall in love with, bend then break
A wishbone in the sandbox for a lucky dog or cat,
I guess that’s that.
So the face I wear isn’t fitted for an ironing table,
Or the spare guest room mattress,
You’re not exactly my choice for an actress,
You’ve got nothing to offer this stranger ,
No raisins left or drinks, go ahead offer him a story,
About the lovers you keep neatly on shelves,
Dust them off on occasion for company,
Heavy with resentment they prefer standing than your lap,
Show him your fingers, the cuts you have from the pages,
How sensitive he’ll find you and agree to spend the night,
You can be the perfect host, a gymnast
But you’ll miss me again, tomorrow
I’ll keep checking the post,
You can write me letters,
As you spread the breakfast toast,
Working up an appetite.
I will bask in the butter you spread,
All over your imagination,
Change your clothes,
But my mind———————no chance.
Hi K. Thanks for sending me the link. I’ve read little poetry lately and written none at all in ages … so reading your poem is bittersweet and reminds why I’ve always been able to get emotionally lost in poetry.
You’ve many intriguing images, sensual and heavy with love unhinged, but not finished. The love still rises up here between the whatever hurt was carelessly wrought …. that’s what I sense.
“Show him your fingers, the cuts you have from the pages,
How sensitive he’ll find you and agree to spend the night,”
Wonderfully insightful the above lines … getting down to the naked reality. Great!
Take care and thank you for sharing your poetry with me.
Jeanne
O ! I will revisit this again…you are making me work for my understanding & pleasure ! Love you mostest, Miss Joanie