Something for the Low End

Dear Alto Section, you angel me.
Or, I turn in my wings & fall.
You are the afternoon afternoon
curled up in. You workboot
the dangling measures. You speak
in money & money goes south.
You backbone the tenors.
You give me stead.

          ii.

If you were naked, you'd be drawn
by a steady hand. If you cared a whit
about callback, you saunter back late.
You are the anti-worry my worries wallow in.
You nectar all the -ades, trump the glazes
in terms of shimmer. You tallish French harlot,
I have no knowledge for you.

          iii.

Your parlor is piles
of poison pillows.

Your shades are so Rodeo.
Roh-day-oh.

You are the philosophy
philosophy jacks off in.

Your blue teardrops pool
on my ledges.

          iv.

You'd forgive half of Chelsea.
You training-wheel the virgin evenings.
Your trailer's gone begging.
You look better in Cranberry.
You're so dark-washed.
You should take off your sweater.
Take your hands out of your pockets.

          v.

Life doesn't have to be
this way. It could be
handsomer. It could make
the sound of crystal beads
jumping. It wants to be so
accordion on your birthday morning.
Never mind what was muted,
it's sort of mysterious. It's incredibly
transparent. It's above all public
blunders & subsequent embarrassment.
It's already home in bed by now,
poor thing.

Copyright © 2006 Betsy Wheeler All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission