The Abnormal Gods

I see you sitting, smoking
with the abnormal gods from the neighborhood.
They are stone wheels grinding canary eggs
to make the blank pale bread of late summer;
while you, Peachy Cream, rock those jeans like a loaf of song.

I used to hang with them, too, you know.
I was the spit and image of hot July;
I offered them headlights from my hand,
and brought them lime juice all the way from Morocco.
The fuckers,
they never even glanced up.

Here is what will happen,
when the gray-shaken sky spills the deluge down J Street--
there will be a hum you'll feel
right through the golden soles of your wedges,
and you'll find yourself fluent before those muttering arthritic antiques
with the Camel packs in their sleeves.

A roll of your hips will dislodge the abnormal gods,
and I will sleep well tonight
on the soft yellow feathers
that fall
from the impossible feast of that victory.
_______

for Thursday Melting. I had to use these words: hum, muttering, juice, spit, abnormal, smoking, fluent, grind, shaken and blank.

A little Emmylou, to go with. *swoon swoon swoon*