Friday, December 26, 2008

Mind the closing doors

This black car is carrying black hearts
and you golden vision on the A train.

What are you thinking as you stare
into the gray distance of 10 feet?

Blue Eyes, soft blue eyes, what are you thinking
in that distant stare, what lies behind those eyes?

Do you think of the cold snow wind
that has made your cheek pink? Blush on pale white skin...

What do you feel as you caress your face, itch gone?
Do your fingers thrill at your touch, flesh to flesh?

I too dream of being a glove, your glove...your shirt...
your whole god damn wardrobe, just to touch you.

Does your young blonde beard feel soft against a cheek,
soft as your blonde hair may be, soft as your blue eyes?

NO NO NO, muddled are dead to me...
or am I dead to men? hasn't been decided, the votes are still out.

A little Peruvian blows his pipe and fingers his tiny green ukulele
for money, and plays as my pensive and profound soundtrack.

Golden boy you have secretly saved me from my heart
if only until the next stop, a momentary mend.

Mind the closing doors indeed!

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