Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I traveled across an icy place.
My shoes fit badly.
I reminded no one of Swan Lake.
I arrived, in a snow storm, in front of a coin laundry, under an overhang.
The pavement was wet.
An old black man was mumbling on a bench.
Cars crawled by like thoughts through a hangover.
There was a woman there,
With a baby on her hip,
And a cigarette in her hand.
There was no bible god in sight, and so I
Put my hand to the back of her month-old highlights and kissed her
Like a butterfly landing on a pastry.
When I leaned back to gaze into her eyes,
She squinted and said,
"Who the fuck are you?"
Standing there in my old parka and knit hat, I said,
"I am the Spirit of Spring, baby."
She was wearing boots, jeans, a brown ribbed turtleneck and a red flannel shirt.
She took a drag, blew it out, and then stood there in the smoke cloud
As if it were dry ice.
She seemed to decide something, tossed away her smoke and tilted her head.
I followed her.
The baby looked back at me as if I were some amazing talking toy.
She lived above the coin laundry.
There was crap all over the place;
A little portable stereo on the floor,
Books on the couch,
Off the kitchen a stuffed-full pantry with no door.
I said, "I came to the coin laundry to get clean."
She said, "I came to the coin laundry to get kissed."
In the morning, she kicked me out,
But with a smile.
The baby was fussing behind me as I went down the stairs.
All my clothes smelled like an ashtray.
I had trouble getting through the downstairs door to the street
Because of my glorious, white, soft-feathered wings,
And everywhere I looked,
The apple trees had blossomed overnight.
amazing photograph by Daryl Edelstein
linked to magpie 48 and One Shot Wednesday 28