Smudge

All is well in the house of glue

Blue bird singing shrunken by

Staying up past its midnight

Manic light, time to shine

Then wither

Black Madonna, which theory

sticks, repeats.

He came by night, snuck in

Tumbled through, bushed out

New colors – laugh!

Flowers sprout in silk, green

Stalks in measured steps

Alignment in the vertical

Shoring up – nothing bent

Not that. Clearing throat, scraping

soul, bristle on pavement

the chill and shake

medallions, not even a note as to why

not good, not bad, just not.

Pirouettes not her own, flashed by

In jolts of gestures, beaming.

Sitting on chair waiting for the call

That never comes.

Pushing forward, clamping time, impatient -

Washing her feet and waiting

In measured steps, sloughing off and waiting

With no one there but the phantom lover

Gazing, sprouting a thousand nights’ tales

And subdued sighs, brought out only by the fall onto the heap of leaves

In black and white wearing a black dress against a white face and black

lips closed and holding on.

Nothing made sense to the four women in the bedroom, only one of them real enough to get junk mail delivered to her. Four dresses, two pair of pants, five pair of shoes, three sweaters, nine shirts, six scarves – two on sale, the rest second-hand – but beautiful enough to fool her, and she knew, knew enough to only go out once a week so not wear herself out - tired plumage being frowned upon.