Holopaw The Lazy Matador
This is not the birds twittering
but the tape bending around
the heads from a warble to a hiss.
How many times have you listened to this song today?
"Two baby aspirin, two sips of gin
and the time it takes
to rewind 'Something On Your Mind'
on the reel to reel to reel
and I'll be there."
To find you splayed out, unlaced again.
Oh, my lazy matador, without a stitch
but for a part in your hair.
You smell of smoke and spearmint,
like changing rooms,
unbridled afternoons
and horseplay and towel-whips
and bathing suits rolled down off sunless hips,
the dizzy, patterned floor under bare feet.
I'm barely-there but heavy,
heavy, shallow hiccuped breaths.
The Pianese are budded out and bound to bloom,
the lazy plumes of smoke,
the twittering of the birds,
the smell of spearmint and
your convincing but unconvincing argument.
"Tell him that it's only a pinprick.
Tell him that it barely broke the skin.
Tell him that you're home but still tender.
In the retelling, let it be rendered
just a pinprick, just a puncture, just a scratch."
