by Lisa Marie Brodsky
Blue, here is a shelf for you
to sit upon, away from
my daily doings,
away from my daily thoughts
but the sky brings in storms
some of us are afriad of.
Dark blue escaping the sky
and all good dreamers pass this way
through the underpass.
Blue shines moonlight beneath the bridge
highlights the hobos, the real, palpable
pain in this world.
Blue, here is a white middle-class woman
you've followed all her life.
As a young girl, she played outside
in thunderstorms waiting to be struck down,
simply wanting a jolt to wake her up
Growing up, she learned red, she spoke
shades of rust that dotted her arms,
a sort of language that drew peoples' glances,
but not enough to say anything.
Blue, you've entered my apartment
climbed into bed with me
flirted, touched, begging to consumate
our life-long relationship
but I fight and I kick
and you move from my feet up to
my groin, to my chest, up my throat,
I hang my head back like a wild
Yes, I can still fight
you leave me for the night
kicking and shaking you off
like a shadow still attached to my feet
Posted on 05/22/2006
Copyright © 2019 Lisa Marie Brodsky