he can smell where she's been today,
it's in her hair. underneath the french
conditioner, the funk of his hot spew.
she said she'd rock climbed devil's knob.
he's pretty sure that she had polished it too.
now she's riding tears and violins,
strolling the imaginary halls of her soap
opera palaces, waiting for her mountain
prince to rescue her from boredomville.
another evening in the living room which
might as well be two grottos side by side,
staring at the wedding portrait on the wall.
he just wishes he was a catfish
swimming up the muddy Rio Grande
past El Paso where there ain't no dams.
til you get to Truth or Consequences.
No comments:
Post a Comment