Black stones became black spiders in a house
that held the evil twin of that sweet party she yearned
to find. People here wanted her to join their cult,
lay on hands with them, shout YES! shout NO!
She noticed many skinny liver-spotted legs rising
from big shoes: flat canoes launched on rocky waters.
She scratched the bites on her feet, mind tick-tocking
between joining or quitting, spiders or stones.
Day, when it came, proved indistinguishable from night,
its buzz of choices caught in the sticky web of dream,
taupe cars becoming taupe telephones with answering
machines asking indecipherable questions.
At the office, the resident narcissist bragged about
a new arm-lengthening set-up he installed in his condo,
a guaranteed six weeks to knuckle-dragging nirvana.
He wanted her to drop up and see it sometime.
She could see his fat fingers tap-tapping on laptop keys,
each a croissant stuffed with sausages from minced leftovers
of his parents’ opinions. She put her own hands in her pockets,
found cobwebs incomprehensibly hardening into stones.
Diane Gage lives and works in the American SoCal metroplex. She has shared her poems in chapbooks, zines, broadsides, poetry journals, academic and professional journals, calendars, cyber postings, art works, art exhibitions, art exhibition catalogs, readings, performances, and various anthologies. Some poems are online at http://www.thanalonline.com/Issues/12/sppoet_en.htm, http://reallysystem.org/issues/seven/, http://qarrtsiluni.com, http://bluevortextpublishers.wordpress.com/interviews/ and https://postcardpoemsandprose.wordpress.com. Also @dianegage on Twitter, where she has been posting Walking in Birdland haiku for a number of years.
Photo ©Richard Beban