"You hear her laugh when she sees you
and you don't know
what she's laughing about, but you laugh with her,"
and she nods off muttering agreement
with herself while we pick apart
boiled chicken
and her chin falls with her fork
and the thought dangles mid air
like the carcass of a Mayfly
stuck to the end of a time curled slip
of melon juiced fly paper
swung pendulum like beneath a ceiling fan
doing its best impression
of a dinner plate's drunken oscillations
twirled atop a three ringer's dowel
above our heads
that maybe the show
of wide stretched mouth
and bleached fronts set amongst a sea of dark southern creases
has more to do with the upstairs neighbor's pathology
than any one of a variety of humors
ascribed to wearers of periwinkle
sun hats and lime tinted scarves.
