The first Monday of October, and I
sit on a bench at a bus stop scribbling
a list of groceries—clouds
patch the sky like paper
mache—sun busts in and out, warms me
bipolarly, to the wind—shade
and shine juxtapose my neck; an army
jacket failing to protect my jeans
from rainwater beaded like bullets
on the bench at the bus stop, where I sit
thinking of plumerias—her favorite flower
HER—if we had a house I’d fill it
full—plumerias from the ceiling, pots
posted in the bathroom, edging
the porcelain tub, all assortments—
orange petals in the kitchen for citrus
tang, and red in the bedroom
like our bedsheets, our bondage
and yellow on our doorstep
for that country-cottage look—
(sigh) how she loves plumerias, but I
sit on a bench at a bus stop,
the first Monday of October, scibbling
a list of groceries while tracing an edge
of my mother's food stamp
card in my jean pocket
with a dream weaver’s finger.
Comments
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this is really beautiful in its stream-of-consciousness i can't think straight because i'm hopelessly in love and she likes plumerias! way. i'm always impressed by your ability to make the incoherent, coherent. i took a few months off from being the active sharepoetry commenting type of gal, but i've visited every one of your poems and offer you my quiet kudos for each. lovely lovely lovely. and more, please.
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plumerias are native to Hawaii
thanx for the kudos, Annac. maybe i need a break, myself, tho. college classes are really starting to heat up. and now there is this girl, so...
maybe i just need to get my priorities straight (as always), but i spend way too much time thinking about poetry. and too much of anything is never a good thing, especially when i have more "important" things to focus on.
there are four cliche phrases.
ugh.
i just really need to find a lei of plumerias.
lol.
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