for Poetry Thursday

Scat Stranger

Weakness is a stranger in my bed. He gnaws
at my grey pillow shams forgetting
to take off his socks. We make love to
Lady Ella - tone and horn filtering
through ears, unexpectedness of jazz
carrying hips through night. And
when the half moon is high above our heads,
the record repeats. But before it begins,

Silence is a stranger. This Silence wears a teal
bow tie, carries a cane. Teal as an antique teapot. He
is the antique, the pause between worlds.
Not serenity nor peace. I do not recognize
them. I come to shake their hands, but
they are white-gloved.
Trace their fingers over my collarbone
to pick up dirt - my, i'd not go to bed
with that - and i curve under covers.

Before the record repeats, Silence
whispers in my ear, so close i cannot hear,
leaving my neck cold and hungry. He
puts down his cane and forgets
to take off his socks, and
his bowtie, like a dancer in a naughty club,
wearing bells around his hips as he tap dances
tap tap tap
to the edge of the stage and I touch abdomen
to play the record. It scratches,
crackles,
a bonfire, sparks
rise, gives birth
to Love, my stranger, who is friend
enough to not forget to take off his socks.

I must feel toes to know a stranger, to
be a friend. Know the curves, how
sharp the nails. But Love, without socks,
has toes the bark of trees, like memories
rough and rigid, repeated. How strange
that we
become three, with a
tap tap tap
after the horns and the tone
after Lady Ella sings her scat.

**

The more I tried to become the other person, the more I became myself.

Labels: Poetry, Writing Prompts