by Sydney Solis
No man's arm around his girl at the cinema
only backward caps, faded denim and mastication
to shotgun blasts, slaps and sirens
no silent prayer or hymns to childhood
reflection on apple pie, but rather top dreams of lovers behind TV doors
un-touching, graceless and like snow in the back seat
unbelievably quiet, white and fluttering
a tear, like those in a dog's eye
wet with no purpose but adoration for
empty homes made from mail order catalogs
home improvements, organized gardens and coffee cups
wait for the day he will come home and touch
his girl in the nylon nightgown,
who holds flower pots with oven mitts
and sweeps a broom over scattered lasagna recipes
clipped from Wednesday's food section
No man's arm around his girl at the cinema
only backward caps, faded denim and mastication
to shotgun blasts, slaps and sirens
no silent prayer or hymns to childhood
reflection on apple pie, but rather top dreams of lovers behind TV doors
un-touching, graceless and like snow in the back seat
unbelievably quiet, white and fluttering
a tear, like those in a dog's eye
wet with no purpose but adoration for
empty homes made from mail order catalogs
home improvements, organized gardens and coffee cups
wait for the day he will come home and touch
his girl in the nylon nightgown,
who holds flower pots with oven mitts
and sweeps a broom over scattered lasagna recipes
clipped from Wednesday's food section
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