Jiminy Cricket
I'm pulled away from Bobby Darin and your red
lips by the digging fingers of Earl Westheimer.
"I'll be right back," but it's out the sliding doors
and into the woods before he's satisfied,
two cigarettes
and a hundred yards of wet silence.
Earl points to his old church in the distance,
standing like the statue of a saint at the cemetery,
his house now glowing like our impending dawn behind us.
Baba O'Riley rolls
through the air, sounds like your
calculated fingertip tracing along my forearm.
But beneath his good-friend glare, I remember
myself and bury all images of you
twisting in a pink skirt
six feet under my consciousness.
I'll return to the party when I'm sure you've gone or forgotten me.
lips by the digging fingers of Earl Westheimer.
"I'll be right back," but it's out the sliding doors
and into the woods before he's satisfied,
two cigarettes
and a hundred yards of wet silence.
Earl points to his old church in the distance,
standing like the statue of a saint at the cemetery,
his house now glowing like our impending dawn behind us.
Baba O'Riley rolls
through the air, sounds like your
calculated fingertip tracing along my forearm.
But beneath his good-friend glare, I remember
myself and bury all images of you
twisting in a pink skirt
six feet under my consciousness.
I'll return to the party when I'm sure you've gone or forgotten me.