Come on this polar expedition
they said.
It'll be fun.
You might meet someone
bring a gun
they said.
Where are they now, those golden friends
with their golden
spilt ends
and their friendship that never ends
written on a napkin
in pencil?
Oh, wire cage towel mother,
how about a hug?
How about a rug to take a nap on?
All of this pretty blue ice
seems to be getting the best of me
lo these
many years on the floe.
Oh, furious angry white bear with your
cotton-ball cubs
somebody loves you, don't they?
I could tell
as you were shredding me all to hell
that you were the white carpet type
with the correct wine
a smart address
and annual membership at the wishing well.
I'd like to be an Inuit with a movie library
here on the hard-pack.
Given six months of sunlight,
I could repair the damage from the constant calving
and get right.
I'd go home, with my raging PTSD carefully cradled
in a nest of newspapers
inside my luggage.
The airline would charge me extra to carry it
and make me jump out
after calculating
altitude and windage.
Hello dear friends, I'm back
I would say
landing hard at Cuckooville Subdivision
in a spray of
wing ice and duty-free fragrances
direct from nowhere
where your children are doing well,
your husbands are golf course gods
and you,
oh you,
pretend not to notice that I'm sliced to smithereens
hanging unfashionably upside-down
like the tongue
who once brought music
to your bell.
______
for Word Garden Word List--Where'd You Go, Bernadette?
Music: Donna Lewis Agenais