It’s Always Dark When I Put on My Lipstick

It’s Always Dark When I Put on My Lipstick

      For love of Stuart Dischell’s “She Put on Her Lipstick in the Dark”

Oui, I met a man in Paris once,
not the only man I’ve ever met
in Paris. It was in a museum
in a garden. I was looking

at the statues; getting a feel
for them with my fingers. Men
want to walk me to the café,
to the entrainer, and to the boutique.

They want me with coffee
and they want to help me
to cross several rues.
He sidled up to me, asking

which statue I favoured.
He said he would steal it for me;
just say the word. I told him
he needed a new line. I felt his

metal security guard badge
and his nightstick. I kissed him
anyway and leaned my head
on his warm chest. Paris was

cold and I wore my aquamarine
scarf. We sipped lovely cups
of coffee near loud machines.
I couldn’t see and I couldn’t

hear. I nearly missed my train,
Paris to Grenoble, seven hours
and 45 minutes. I never saw him
but I remember his face.

a better place to be or, she, part i

i lie in bed making snow angels
her sheets are white
like a frozen tundra

like a bridal gown
the assumption of purity
she loved the absurdity

im sprawled out
my left arm and leg hanging off the side

i woke up on the wrong side of this bed
the wrong side of the tracks with
the wrong girl

falling asleep and waking up
feeling trapped in some place
less exciting than
it was the night before

some nights i wish i had just stayed home
stayed up late
writing about girls
rather than putting up with them

she woke before i got up
i had been watching her
thinking of whirlpools
and tornados
but it’s my life
spiraling down

who is she
i wrote her name on my hand so
i wouldnt forget
but who is she

you can leave now she said
trying to salvage small self-respect

thanks for your permission i said
already headed toward the door

are you coming back she said

something’s got to give