watching, outside my bedroom window;
her leaves playing touch with the glass.
It is skewed and screwed up like Jack
from The Shining, and is clearly becoming
a very dull boy.
But he knows how to dance when it’s
6:12 pm, and the class has already begun.
He knows how to groove like a back alley
whore, dressed up like she’s not
a back alley whore; behind a grub club
where the drinks cost as much as you’re worth.
He knows something—that’s becoming
quite clear. I see it in his eyes.
Perhaps he’s hiding my instruction manual—
(the one my mother lost soon after my birth
in a random paradoxical accident)
between his sun-spotty teeth; behind
the white smoke rings and slender pink ladies
spilled on his backdrop of bar?
Jack is twin Oak leaves for eyes, with two perfect holes
in each center: America’s Green groovin’ Man.
The (he’s onto me) voodoo tree man.
Or maybe I’m just looking too hard
for ways to improve my groove;
the wind through my sleepy man’s Hamlet.
And the poet drifts off
into a page,
writing his face in her book.
The sun drops its head in my lap after closing,
each night when the swinging has ceased.
And Jack Oak puts his face to my glass,
and cradles my HUMAN GIRL MANUEL closer:
grinning at the moon in my forest of eyes
(even closed, he can see how they burn!),
while watching her heart like a forest on fire,
kissing the glass between dreams.
© Kristin Reynolds 10 13 2010
Sometimes I let my imagination out of it’s cage, and off it’s leash: this is the sort of mad thing it comes back with clenched in it’s teeth.