I hate your hay hair
That must be the driest pluck of farmland in California
You’re a fire hazard
Do you like having hair made of straw?
Are you waiting for Rumplestiltskin to weave it into gold?
This must be the peak of dehydration
Your hay hair is drier than sand
It’s kindling
The crows are coming to nest
He fits in here like this place was built to take his luggage and hand him a room key.
There’s been absolutely no interruption.
It’s been like adding nicer pillows and better towels.
Having him here feels like we got new refrigerator magnets, but these ones have words of encouragement and not casual reasons to give up and find rope.
Must be humiliating
when the invitations go unanswered
Worse though
when the help prefers to clear the tables
than endure the party
When you speak, Carlene,
it sounds like you’re electrocuting time
In the car, your talking turns thick,
like you’ve smeared it all over the tires
made your voice gargantuan
Carlene,
you rival nature in self-contained story
with a sound of cawing birds or buzzing flies
now glued here forever
to silently gnaw at my memory
I dare say the poetry’s been kicked right out of me.
Done broke the legs off
Smithereens
I collapse
Forfeit with dust between my teeth, taste of a dreamless frontier
Manifest in shambles
I dare say the sheen on this life has just about done me in
Been shattering
I’m ruined in the palm of safety
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