A raccoon listening

The lights flare on and cut
a night’s peace short like him,
all five five of stealthy love.
A groin somewhere in hell tenses
how a lion tenses alone dying.
He floods the road with his footsteps,
bangs his fist at home to his crotch
at fourteen again weeping from bruises
he gave his body from the father
of a girl who told him good morning.
Bruises like the pop-tarts he ate
before he knew of sustenance,
even if inside the food is hollow
as a lung. The next night
he approaches in a kingly garb
given him by a wiser body than his,
and cold wind shames him none.
A boy somewhere in hell tenses
as his bare feet kiss cool wet lawn
knowing if there is a window
there is also a portrait of a girl
as much his as opposite is possible.
He, naked and unformed, she dressed
in her hours of thinking like dolls
she made house with, and when she
made the boy doll kiss the girl doll
she thought that was something.
Good morning, he whispers to a raccoon
fumbling fearlessly in the trash,
smelling of chicken grease and fur
he sure could use, and she whispers
with her back turned undressing
as honest as can be
I wonder if I should wear fringes
like that Liz girl with the piercings.
He whispers good morning erect
as wind fondles him gently and coolly,
she whispers that girl sure is pretty.


~ by Jeremy on January 23, 2011.

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