Thursday, March 14, 2013

Punch in

There's a faint waxy sensation
on the tip of her fingers
running down over her
pearly soft knuckles, feels
like melting crayons
as she hits the doorbell-
swings her head to the
rhythm of creaking wind chimes
waning beyond the walls,
the open closet cell--she's unsure
of the next step, what's come
and what's to go--"we aren't supposed
to know what to decide on, how to
proceed"--which she didn't at once
say to the metal men exiting with
dull eyes grayed over with the
program silver needle spikes--
it's a kick, a cause, a bore, it's whatever--
was more like it, she thought
that's more what I would think, yes,
me exactly how could I forget,

she's in line for the full coat
packaged with every luxury
at no extra cost--
There's a whole factory
at work and the labor
never dries up.

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