The Footprints Against Your Plaster

Aline fell against the door jamb wistfully.
No. Dreamily. “You shall bend my name
Against this until it vanishes with me.”

The Sycamore fell so sweetly, so confidently.
Disease had not dulled its annoying beauty.
From the roof of your house you can see
The places neighbors hide their drug money.

This land ate Woody, and it will eat you.
Whose slave was it that said, “I’m pregnant
Master, what shall I put on the headstone?”

I see the same people at the Laundromat.
I must remember to ask them about their welfare.
There are things we all have in common, fear.
The new record by that French Canadian.

Once the question has been drafted, the ambulance
Channeled away with its bomb, time for a pick-me-up.
We will pose the question and strangle in decorative crepe.

You’ve known me for as long as it takes to drive
to the burger joint. I will be waiting for time to rethink
its take on this space I use for spare skins, replacement chins.

Is there an us I missed in the shuffle? The mad dash to close
Before closing time? Time for one more short set, one more round.
This one is dedicated to all the brave soldiers defending our way
Of life in the wine cellar. It’s called “Unreachable by Sonance”

My son is a germ in a pocket math capsule. He merges,
Fabricates shapes, makes shoes for the poor, eats gluons.
A son is a wonderful thing for a man to emulate. Compact.

I find that lately I am able to reverse my epidermal order.
And often the effect is striking. I hope for my children’s sake
That I die with the secret intact. There is little more
comical than a sudden deathbed objection.

The sun seemed sudden at first, remember?
I saw it from a small hill bent against my only word.
But she happened to be the girl the grass demanded.