So strands of my hair fall into
Into a soda pop can in
A room full of people
Distracting themselves with collapse.
One guy nurses apocalypse
On his chest like others
Would a paperback,
Or a choco Danish.
But the bell ringer is the woman
In the floor length gown, and flip flops.
No matter of my concern.
Body to dress, light to tunnel.
Here we are rumbling through
Our teeth bared from boredom,
Wagons before the fire.
And with us, the magnanimous browser
Of rose tattoo sketches
Permanently clawing down to her
Ankles for none to know.
The fluorescent beam above
Exposing too chewed nails
Gathered nervously around tables where
Coffee and donuts long have ruled.
I swish in her cottony stamp
Of inaccessibility while peacock-y men
Strain to achieve temperance
And leave their eyes socket bound.
No one can complain about it.
She wears this dress the way
Good singers curve their tunes.
But to me, reason is an empty stomach.