lazarus
Blue Crack Supplier
more post-relationship housecleaning, courtesy of Yours Bluely. I promise to return to more surreal waters ASAP...
THE DROP-OFF
the night was pregnant/filled with promise
but the water broke with your own contracted words,
the wipers only caught the tears
on the outside of the car
as I squeezed the wheel in shock
and ticked off our remaining miles and minutes
we were birthed to your doorway
under a burned-out streetlamp,
the only light an echo from the foyer inside,
your fingers played at the fold of my collar;
what were you stitching
besides excuses for hollow reasons?
sprinkling my neck with post-mortem snowflake pecks:
your parting gift for runners-up and failed contestants
the set delay on the door's hinge
forced a slo-mo punctuation on your retreat,
your perfume's trail swallowed by the elevator;
through the glass I watched your progress
past the circles of hell to your displayed floor,
and imagined you fumbling for your keys,
struggling to fit the teeth in the lock,
stifling your whimpers and shudders,
plowing through the portal to fall onto your bed
between the prison of your walk-up
and the crime scene of my car,
I hesitated,
fought an urge to flee into the night
and leave the engine running,
battery draining,
abandoned helpless in its tracks
I left the city in my rearview mirror,
forged out to unmapped roads and numbered routes,
the music blaring angry words I could not speak,
and wondered would this happen in the country,
without the battlefield of an urban grid,
without the tension/panic/pressure?
would you have had the energy
to suffer through the storm,
await the bounty of the coming harvest?
would the fire be contained in wide open spaces?
free the horses from the stable--
the barn is burning;
forget the saddles--
the barn is burning;
call the water wagon,
but set the horses free;
when they tire they will return
to rest their heads upon the ashes.
laz
THE DROP-OFF
the night was pregnant/filled with promise
but the water broke with your own contracted words,
the wipers only caught the tears
on the outside of the car
as I squeezed the wheel in shock
and ticked off our remaining miles and minutes
we were birthed to your doorway
under a burned-out streetlamp,
the only light an echo from the foyer inside,
your fingers played at the fold of my collar;
what were you stitching
besides excuses for hollow reasons?
sprinkling my neck with post-mortem snowflake pecks:
your parting gift for runners-up and failed contestants
the set delay on the door's hinge
forced a slo-mo punctuation on your retreat,
your perfume's trail swallowed by the elevator;
through the glass I watched your progress
past the circles of hell to your displayed floor,
and imagined you fumbling for your keys,
struggling to fit the teeth in the lock,
stifling your whimpers and shudders,
plowing through the portal to fall onto your bed
between the prison of your walk-up
and the crime scene of my car,
I hesitated,
fought an urge to flee into the night
and leave the engine running,
battery draining,
abandoned helpless in its tracks
I left the city in my rearview mirror,
forged out to unmapped roads and numbered routes,
the music blaring angry words I could not speak,
and wondered would this happen in the country,
without the battlefield of an urban grid,
without the tension/panic/pressure?
would you have had the energy
to suffer through the storm,
await the bounty of the coming harvest?
would the fire be contained in wide open spaces?
free the horses from the stable--
the barn is burning;
forget the saddles--
the barn is burning;
call the water wagon,
but set the horses free;
when they tire they will return
to rest their heads upon the ashes.
laz
