Metrosphere 2004-2005
Rotten
Nothing under the peanut butter lid, on the stove hood,
the shrink-wrapped tin
foiled sins, much--
bullshit within
and much coffee and much rotten milk
sugared-up blood after dinner,
we say through stomachaches,
"care to look now babe?
Care to look, babe?"
He's the circus clown, war veteran, alcoholic
the once addict of heroin, one time ballroom
dancer, father of some three kids, collector
of traffic tickets, bottles of J&B, and the neighbor's casual
contempt,
Nothing in it, inside the kitchen,
"care to look?
Care to look now, babe?"
Construction days, scenic casting on the Platte banks
hangover, late night TV on a brown plaid couch stuffed
with sweat and pain, you looked then babe, looked good
and fit, miserably stuffed with pain, all the same conversations
about beginning school again, and push-ups, health food,
401k's, savings and workouts, and reading books again,
laughing about the circus, chemicals, war,
but he didn't bother to peek in the kitchen
"now care to look babe?"
Then a bad dinner joke clashes with
the perfect cabernet
after potatoes and steak
salad, croutons on the table,
the linen now slightly stained,
aggressive passes, flying dinner rolls
because you never laughed he cracked dishes,
your certain escapes, in the kitchen corners,
in every cabinet you stayed, scattered, too small
to detect, too angry to save; simply you felt,
"you don't look here, babe,
you don't even care,
to look down here babe."