Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Scales

Unhorse that set line into this teeming, still fresh water.
So, that I may prick it nimbly.
My….

crooked-

little-

wet-

mouth

catching on your hook.

Though, it is not your bait that inveigles me.
It is not your scent, nor your whiskery whistle,
It is not the way your large fingers handle these scales.
Mercurial, vacillating and capricious.
But, more-so– the need to be pulled up, kept and put to mouth.

I observe more, and suspect more than I direct.
I presume other fluorocarbons,
Though my eyes have grown impuissant and,
Clumsy, like a 4 in the morning user.
I keep catching that bait,
Only to keep getting flung back,
And skimmed hard upon these green waters.
A chaplet, too bantam for your collection.

The Third Suite

Your fingertips, like a felt tip pen,
Trace kindly around my mouth,
As if you were symbolizing the moment,
And I, your greatest emblem.

Life around us dark, thick and black like a dirty Labrador.
Yet, somewhere the mountains were rising nowhere.
And still, I heard the passing bell.
It cried along with the tangerine dawn,
Scattering the doves and robins from their dreams, their sleep.
I sing low in the third suite.
For the precious friends’ that are hid in death.

I am here in evening’s stillness,
Alone only with the lyrics of cicadas and airplanes,
I walked these three city blocks, looking for something—anything.
But, I am unsure of what exactly.
Maybe a shortcut home?
A smile or even October,
After a gentle rain.

Your thick fingertips,
Still working their way around my simple pink mouth,
Redirecting these lips of mine to yours–
Symbolizing the moment,
And I, your greatest emblem.

Dancing At Midnight

I dangle here, lightly.
Spinning these silver threads.
As the wind catches me and spins me slowly,
As if I was dancing at midnight.
I build this structure around me.
One that is soft, sticky and strong.
This home is something that will shelter me from the unknown, the painful.
Hours I spend working,
These legs ache, they become numb like licorice in a child’s fingers.

I push myself harder,
So I have this place around me.
To provide for me, to protect me.
Finally I see the intricate patterns,
It is beautiful as the moon catches it and it sparkles.
It is those things to which are often hidden, overlooked.

I am proud of this foundation.
I worked hard for this place.
I lie upon it and rest my head,
I close my eyes for a minute and take a deep breath.

It is here; the rain comes and washes away these threads.
And all this time I spent preparing.
My efforts seem as if they were for nothing.
I feel the disappointment run across this small frame.
What good was this for?
To work hard for nothing?

It is during this moment of frustration and loss.
I realize I am being tested.
It is here I begin to rebuild this structure around me.
That foundation, that refuge and the future I desire.
I will have this web of sureness.

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