Saturday, August 16, 2003

Here's the poem I wrote in the little notebook. Poetry swappers, avert your eyes.

Miss Teen Your Name Here

She’s walking backward through the plate-glass door
Like an unmarked bill or a press-on tongue.
That blank sash sounds familiar, taut
In wind and calm. Some blonding perp’s
Quick-witted halo can’t compete with her
Desire for cash and carry, sand-polished for
A row of empty chairs.

Inside the store there’s no discount rack
Hanging where deciding ought to be.
It’s not like Tennessee or Ocean
City when the scrim’s a savior, cold
And peek-a-boo lovely in the feral light.
Call off the trainer and the prep-school-strut-
Talking carnies: she’s on the verge of something
Real here, like a way to talk about
Herself in the third-person plural.

Mom’s waiting out in the car with Brad
And the black lab puppy. Tell us how to sort
The finalists from the forward, spilt
Like butter over the upturned eye.

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