Maybe people are ashamed to read these magazines infront of them.
Faces of rockstars piled up on your coffee table - It seems lazy
and off center.

I know you're right there with me,
with the choir, in the golden bubble,
when I say I can't take another
agnostic approach, as to why some people
roam more freely than others.

If you really are an artist
you can make this a room
I'll know how to sink into.

Paint a map, wall to wall
and every day a different road,
the same lone angel above it.

I found a camera in the cushions.
You don't take pictures
but your aimless friends do.
You rely solely on the scent
of a pin-prick of a woman
to keep you in your room for days
naked spine curled around her pillow.
And you remember nothing but a
finger snapping, and the brilliant new verse
you've prayed for.

I took a picture of your guitar.
Useless without you.
And the Christmas lights still
taped around your window, framing
a plant with a few good leaves
and a matchbox on the sill wet from the rain.

I'm just waiting for you to
turn the water off,
come out of the shower.
Towel holding your skin to bone.
Dancing to the music channel, stories
of your raver past, a million watts
pulling at your zombie arms.

Did we ever send postcards,
did you ever turn your ringer back on.
I'm just waiting for you to
tell me you're hungry.
Though we both know there is no
food in the house.
Only photographs, and on the back
you've etched a chord for each.
So somebody may piece you together.

A collage of the limber.

08/01/2005

Posted on 08/01/2005
Copyright © 2024 Kimberly Rhode