The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Kathi Wolfe LYING HERE IN THESE FIERCE PAJAMAS after E. B. White I'm stage struck when you glide, like Grace Kelly checking out the murder scene without wrinkling her latest dress from Paris, through the rear window of my champagne-soaked dreams. I don't want to be snowed under the inelegant ice of January, the reams of papers prancing on my desk, the news of war pounding like a word worm in my head. I want to dance with you in our Cole Porter world where anything goes except disaster and the common currency is laughter. You remind me, that was another movie, we're not dressed for it now. YELLOW TULIPS When I'm sweaty, like cotton candy in the seventh inning stretch of the final game of the World Series, out-of-tune, like a piano too drunk to debut in Carnegie Hall, empty as a soothsayer with no truth, frightened as glass afraid to shatter, when the dead yellow tulips remind me that we will all turn to dust, I think of you, playing with my hair three weeks before you died. The soft white clouds, you said, will always be there. Not much comfort. But enough. TOUCH TONE for Louis Braille My fingertips bleed. I'm on a first date in hell, holding hands with your cranky-edged dots, who want no new members in their secret society. Crawling through your night-writing to read "Mary had a little lamb" is like climbing up a cliff barefoot backwards. Still, I must crack your code or forget myself. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |