Showing posts from February, 2009

Lover's Lane

She's the kind of girl who lives romantic.
Red lipstick, little black dress.
Curls and pearls.
Super slim cigarettes,
Dry martinis and vodka water.
White carpet, white teeth.
Leather bound books, rotary telephone.
Typewriter, typewriter, typewriter.
Personalized stationary, personalized pen.
Perfect cursive, wet black ink.
Polite shoes, yoga mat.

She's the kind of girl who lives nomadic.
Plaid sweatshirt, blue jeans.
Sneakers and coffee.
Cheap smokes and chain smoking,
Wind-blown hair, notes on napkins.
Water-logged book, back pocket.
Tea lights, Belle and Sebastian.
Beer and scratch tickets.
French cursing, untying.
Bubble gum and wrappers.


Tonight, Black History Month is not celebrated.
It isn't even forgotten. It was never thought of.

Tonight, instant coffee is pulsing through my fingers.
Dictionary-digits, as I call them.

Tonight, sleeping is not an option.
Nervous knees will deny my desire for rest.

Tomorrow, I won't get anything right.
I'll drink too hard, I'll smoke too much, I'll cry too often.

But for now, we'll just fold our hands on our laps,
tell stories of ghosts, and regenerate the night we met.