Sunday, August 22, 2010

WIPE IT. WIPE IT CLEAN.



Who here wants a cookie? 
 Of course I do, but my mouth is dry because my mind says so.

Who here wants a piece of apple pie?
 Of course I do, but my hands won’t budge to raise.

Who here wants vanilla ice cream?
 Of course I do, but the whole world seems to stare.

Who here wants cheesecake? 
 Of course I do, but my stomach seems to growl.

Who here wants a brownie? 
 Of course I do, but I insist that I can’t see my knees.

I bend over, try to reach em’ and I see that I can. 
I stand up again, look in the glass where a fat girl stands, face sprayed with tears. 

I take a Kleenex out of my pocket wipe the fat girl’s salt-water entrenched face.

I wipe and wipe, and wipe and wipe,

like a car wiper’s 


inexorable left, right, up, down, left, right, up, down.
Until the sun reveals itself, choking the rain, to its last remains.
The tissue has worn and the glass emerges lucid.
Fat girl is thin, startled. Her eyes refulgent, above the red arch forming beneath
the two holes bereft of snot.

Who here wants maple caramel pancakes? She knows she wants them. 
So do I.  

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