Wouldnt have come out this malted
fall night except for an invitation
to Duluths redone
drawing room of a view
blue and lavender
on the long vertiginous
hall of a boardwalk. A lake seance
where the sky shades seem designed
to summon up an adolescent self
that shrugged from the overrun
to the new neighbors
stratum of paint and wallpaper.
A blue and lavender living room.
The moved-in-mother, by day, a forerunner
of informality. Upstairs there
I had seen a begirdled bride dress.
Four boys can be awful,
she was saying. You can whack
them if you want. About to
boysit in the Disney-dreamy
living room. Boysenberry pillows. She
couldnt be strapped in elastic.
It wasnt her night to tackle.
I couldnt whack them though.
Pretended not to see
the smuggled marshmallows.
Refrained from overseeing
the eldest at his toothbrush, squeamish
and shirtless inside the bathroom door.
Attempted being a semaphore
in the halls that led
to admiring the skirmish
of a womans wishes into
lavender and blue. Sacked
on the sofa, all-get-out probably
going on overhead. Up by the
converted yellowbrick gas station we
await the meandering
of four teenagers. Their
sailboat-slow ice cream floats
seep in front of us.
And back to look into the deeps of a
young girls reluctance, holding
a cone cold as boycotting before
clouds of incongruous
solace. Unreal as
that she wouldnt
summon to be whacked
into her unreal coldish world.
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