The Queen Of Catalpa Street

She walks down the street like she owns the place,

Like she could just walk up to any house and say, "baby...go" and they'd have to move out,

To Coldwater, or Bad Axe,

Just because she said so,

And just because she makes you want to bend to her will.

She walks down the street kinda arrogant and strong, like she just put a hotel on Boardwalk and she's gonna win...

You know it.

She knows it.

She swings her arms all casual, like she's used to holding women;

She wears jeans, hiking boots, a red flannel shirt and mittens,

And her long straight dark hair flows out behind her like a beautiful lackey,

As if she were The Queen Of Catalpa Street.



She's on her way to Blockbuster or 7-11,

Or her older, married, female lover's house,

Where they will sweep the shit out from under the Christmas tree and make love.

Afterward, Jen,

or Anne,

or Steph,

Or whatever her name is, will sigh at her back as she lets herself out, and it will take her half an hour to find baby Jesus again and

Set him in the bed of the toy train's coal car without thinking.



She is on her way to Blockbuster or 7-11;

I am on my way to The Coffee Beanery in my car with the rainbow sticker on the back,

But I wish I was with her,

In her hotel on Boardwalk,

With my fingers spread on the soft flannel at the small of her back,

Later to unlace her hiking boots with my teeth,

From my knees,

Because she is so butchy

And beautiful,



And she walks down the street like she owns the place,

Like she still has some lucky woman's taste on her lips,

Like she could toss her hair, the Queen Of Catalpa Street,

Glance over at my car and say,

Lady,

Get ready to beg so pretty,

Because, really,

It's you

Who needs

The ride.

_________

(Christmas Eve, 2006. Revised 7/7/10)

_________

one shot wednesday