Mrs. O'Hara sat at the kitchen table with me,
clicking her scarlet-drip-painted fingernails together,
musing with her wide mouth, eyes almost laughing,
looking pity at me and my curtain-less house,
the cold wrapped around my shoulders like
an ill-advised bought-out-of-passion stole,
sweetie, she said, putting down her steaming mug,
of southern comfort and bitters,
apple dripping from her words,
sweetie, tomorrow it will be,
Monday, it will always be,
tomorrow, sweetie...
the stars that blushed in my eyes, sighed,
in bluesy sky-falling harmony,
right?! I said,
shrugging off my peppermint pink pinwheel moment,
with the ease and care,
of a once dreamed upon shimmering silver dress,
what are we going to do?
Mrs. O'Hara laughed, choking, on the effervescent,
champagne of her kissed-want me lips,
oh sweetie, what Can we do?
No comments:
Post a Comment