little lost causes

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Folded Chairs

It used to snowed. We were snowed in around a tiny formica table.
We drank beers and bloody marys and I sweat in my seat
under my shirts and on the plastic and I tried to touch you.
I tucked my finger into your palm while you took pictures.
I tried to talk about my new apartment and the plants I'd buy.
I'll put my bed in the corner and get a long, narrow table.
There will be so many green things on the floor it'll become forest.
I'll scatter soil in the bathroom and leave bowls of water out
as reminders. On a chair by the tub will be a stack of magazines
with an ashtray on top and perhaps a vine climbing the sink.
It'll be a fucking forest, I thought
when the wind was white with snow.