Coda In Color
He preferred street whores to me,
women tarted up crimson pretty,
enough lipstick to paint a two story
house, dayglow blue nails to drag
trails through his back as they moan,
'oh baby', with petulant mouths.
One doesn't need to talk to such women,
he told me, ask about their day, bring
flowers, gold trinkets for hurt feelings.
Coin, their currency.
Green stuff, their feed.
A black eye, now and again, when
a man's had a bad day never unnerves
them, especially when bonus paid.
I can't remember the days he lay in my bed,
can't remember when I last wanted him to, but
the last train to Brooklyn left years ago.
The station is long shuttered and closed.
Now you come along, kiss my cheeks,
my lips, swallow my breasts, tell
no white lies about futures as our now
inches forward, day by day, our Dorothy
road rising, arched with a rainbow, its colors
leading us past worn train rails towards Oz.
Art: Thoughts by John Canning
copyrighted and used with permission
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