 |
|
|||||||||
 |
 |
--overpass-- a woman… but the rest is elusive someone keeps going back with my oil paints and blonding her hair lengthening her skirt but definitely a woman i can see her sternum then sloping up with my palm behind her sunburst with inlayed opal that seems too big and plays, staring her eyes opened and closed for tom waits who’s all fedora and soulpatch and old neglected and loved boots – once black that give the bass thump when he stomps as a shoddy pickup rolls the seam in the highway i can only see them on blow, bloo oo w bl(sli de)oow and in i can only see the far lane rushing leftward we three standing freeling and graveling stomping free with our spittle on the sheltered concrete decline she’s looking at tom who’s facing away (easier for stomping) from the road and i can see her shirt peeled back – her bare against the cold and sheen condensation now because of it mist now now rain now heard first as the slosh of tires and we play now fuller and one by one they park their motorcycles and stroll up does she realize she’s killing me with that? looking that way with my first guitar i guess i’ve been bending over more while i blow and now i’ll use a hand to sit and brush the grit off my stiff jeans and waits wails about what’s happening but no one looks at the harmonica player they see only fedora and soulpatch and breast and rain well, look at the rain then and listen as the player eases back and the harmonica turns to breath.
|
|