Socializing Blues

Leaving a social gathering

is followed by the blues.

I’m heavy and unequal.

A triangular conversation leaves me

feeling ridiculous.

The woody area

where my grounding tree comforts

attracts the snout of a dog

that reminds me of an otter.

The mourning dove

is my bird.

She sings the blues,

and she always finds me.

I saw you walking in a Peruvian hat,

like Lazarus in leather.

Her strawberry hair was lovely.

Was it awkward

when you told her

you couldn’t place me?

Your ghastly memory

trying to forget

the time I told you

to take your shuttlecock and blast it into outer space.

I seek bittersweet love

of the best chocolate

there is to offer

at the bodega—

not the bodega

where the owner

smoking outside

looked at me

like I was a turkey wing.

I went to the other bodega—

careful not to be too friendly.

Sparse interaction

could be confused

with flirting.

The tricolor ice cream winks at me.

The mourning dove sings the blues.

Ever since my gut was incised,

I’ve not been quite right.

The moon looks different now.

I feel conquered.

It angers me.

There’s not enough nutmeg

to change it.

The mourning dove sings the blues behind me.

Cup and saucer waiting for me to warm

while bantering of things half false.

The mourning dove sings one last song before

I drop my earrings in the jewel box,

close the top,

wonder why I don’t have a striped cat,

rub my shoulder blade,

and dream about the Atlantic sea—

where I’m digging for clams in a sunbonnet.

If this seems a bit ridiculous, that’s because I’ve slipped in parts of the names of 18 different kinds of seashells (another prompt from NaPoWriMo 2014). It was fun. Smile

All My Guts and Soul

© J. Rae

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About All My Guts and Soul

food, feelings, freedom, etc...
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