Sunday, October 6, 2013

Vixen of the Office Hours (A Poem)

I have a white-box office,
My boots shake it’s walls
In five-day intervals.
Call me tasteless, call me
All the names of things
Your wife can never be
In the two-bit walls
Of your glass house.

Nothing quite breaks the silence
Like the ping of a lie
Across an empty bar counter,
But I only drink on Fridays,
Chardonnay or cinnamon whiskey,
Either throat will swallow
The bitten pity
Of this never-ending work week.
So let’s allow my words
To be disregarded as drunken.
Let my two-day break
Hit the digital alarm clock
Come Sunday morning
Like something cosmic.

Let my whitewashed face,
Pale of a hangover
And the two empty bottles of Gatorade,
Appear to you a mythical sire,
If only for an hour
As I properly deny you
An initiative though you still
Hold the curve of my thighs
In your right pupil
Like an arrested development.

1 comment:

  1. Stacy this is fantastic! You are a genius. I love "you still hold the curve of my thighs in your right pupil" and "either throat will swallow" and and and because every line is fabulous this is tragic and exciting perfect


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