Swords And Roses

Some lives have themes.         Goldfish that stubbornly die;         compatability only with distant lovers          - flowers (but no sweet-breads)         that wilt to the touch.         Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat         agreeably on a green linoleum table         with light basking in....         a tad playful,         paws up,         (classic boxer stance)         but no one notices.         Others oblique in their transparency,         are unmindful of even the empty closet         and greeting cards that smile hello.         In the dark         this room shimmers below         life-raft status;         chairs are buoys         bobbing under waves         of congealed fright.         In the morning         the first pigeons         rifle over rooftops,         mad flutterings like your eyes         stabbing gables looking curiously         like your heart.         A tree bandaged in wood         manages a feeble handshake         with sky cajoling winter.         But it is the moon,         large and eerie,         a golden earring         mindful of a Chinese panda         that plies its trade.         Mandarin-like, a snout         so cloud-entrenched         soft night barely resembles         willow and bamboo shoots         the universe left to feed her.         Nuggets or nougats?         Should I call you "opaque",         use coke-bottle glass as a         symbol of light-headedness, transparency?         Keen vision?         Could it be more is known of outer space         than your mind         or that leaves,         frosted with cold,         are conducting interviews         maliciously within the park fold?         Rather (and this is so circumspect)         no one owes anyone         in the brisk coinage and trade         that breeds human waste ...         So drivel passes as conversation,         a handshake for real investment.         A lot in common, the wrong dreams.         Pretty awareness, the desolate pennies         stumble from our hands.         More substance, really,         in the rustle of a silk dress         or static electricity         that pops over orb-sized breasts.         Hide and seek         peek a boo,         you don't need me         I don't need you.