Like Bright Raspberries

I

Today another one
sat down outside.

Another charm plopped like
skin on skin only

twenty feet away, muse
of the electric death.

I watched and read
Best American Poetry,

2008. The Guest
Editor is Charles Wright.

I was long past
his glorious intro.

I was also long past
staying focused on

the butterfly of
crisp hardback pages,

an inner filling that
will yellow, yes it will.

II

After half an hour
of trading glances,

caffeine sweat-cake
drumming up to head

like a jogging heart,
like sentience in transit,

the mocking bird got up,
cell phone still in hand,

and bounced--for her
terminal, her gold,

next-step oblivion
that would snow boredom,

powerful precipitation
of absence and card-houses.

And so, back down to
that poetry, fight or flight.

III

Did I mention the curly
hair aiming up like a torpedo?

The scandalous ragtag garb
hanging loosely from figure

but not like dead skin
or a dripline of cake batter?

Did I mention her bag
stitched together rottenly?

Poor case of fashion
attraction, our poor

glances stupid and fruitful,
my vision to that wasted

soul just gun barrels
of smoke on the horizon,

damp feet inside raw shoes,
pumped clouds of adrenaline.

Like bright raspberries,
now is for sitting and

now is a time, green-shaded,
for all those red insides.