Sweat's a way of life here, easing down
Into the plastic basketweave lawn chair,
Hose in one hand, the idea of washing
the car a pretense for getting your own
Skin wet. Mountain Dew in hand No. 2,
the slow heft of wrist to elbow to shoulder
to mouth, listening to the tinny whispers
Of an old radio in the shade of the carport,
Playing adult contemporary, cord snaking
back through the screen door into the kitchen.
Or else you could stay inside, laid out
like a corpse on the black leather couch,
skin stuck to its skin, conscious only
of the rise and fall of your rib cage,
the whistles and tweaks of a game show,
Watching through the window as the kudzu
strangles a mimosa. There's no recipe
For that. Bob Barker leads the audience
In air-conditioned applause, and if you
Could hear the pounding of the surf, it would
Be like a fly's buzz, it wouldn't make it any better.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
