I meant to take your picture
down from the computer screen.
The one that came from the place
where our horses first tasted grass.
Necks nuzzling sun. Tails rising.
Like windshield wipers. Brushing the sky.
That's what they seemed to want the most.
But I didn't know they were coming.
They just came barging in with large subpoenas.
They took it all, baby. Even the bed. Where
we chased the spots of lizards. As they darted
through the drive-thru at Starbucks. All the way
to the supermarket aisle where vegetables sing
Macchiato, Macchiato all day long. And now
they keep repeating our sweet love words.
(These people. These bureaucrats.)
Curiously. Mockingly. Jealously.
Maaaaaa chiiii aaaaaaaaaaaa toooooe
Macchi a toe Macchi Macchi Macchi!
Macchiato! Macchiato! As if they might
get their tongues around the cocoasyllables
of me and you. At least they left me my underwear.
I slip my phone inside there. And follow them
to where we first met. The great Spaghetti Junction
of the overpasses. Where lovers meet or jump off.
They keep marching with all my stuff. And taunting
Macchi! Macchi! Macchiato! All the way to the edge.
And now they've spotted the blinking lizard in my shorts.
They can take it. Let 'em have it. My underwear too.
But that won't stop this steady green pulse.
This excited flashing blue.
This cellular need for you.


�2007 by Ray Sweatman