"Seclusion"
It rains down in her living room each night,
this ragged, crowded, polyester scene.
She turns her mother’s picture from the light.
The ape skates past the wilted window flowers,
his hair slicked back and suit coat neatly pressed.
The clock calls for a cold west wind, and showers.
The sun swims in and shakes its dewy head.
The subway shrieks above the living room.
The Pope declares that art nouveau is dead.
She locks the doors and sews the windows shut.
Her eye emits a yellow, wanton light.
April’s bright mutiny is the cruelest cut.
She’s waiting out the fever. Grief’s her cousin,
until the day her neighbor skitters over
and finds her gently perched upon a hatpin
and eating red carnations by the dozen.
© 2007 Jana Bouma
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