Dorian Hargrove 8:30 p.m., Dec. 12
One of my arbitrary free verse poems.
Strutting in dirty converse
Trying to sell her things
All that ticky-tacky makeup and tawdry jewelry
The candy paint'll wear off in three weeks but one of his smiles, one of his laughs is eternal in her brain so she pays up.
She'll empty her wallet faster for one of those smiles than she would for a mugger in a dark alleyway. He smells like gasoline and cotton candy, like dreams burnt beyond all recognition in some Forest Fire
fueled by hairspray and band t-shirts
And by that charred scent, ebony like teardrops,she can find him.
And when she finds him, it's a pool of perfect novocaine lambency
he makes her dizzier than the sound of broken, slurring music boxes.
running one hand or another through that hair
naturally somewhere between red and tawny but colored black now
It's always nice talking to you
will you come back?
do you promise?
She promises. And she'll be back for a hug hello, drowned in the ambrosial smell of
a cotton candy inferno.
Fueled by hairspray.
Fueled by Gasoline.