Upstairs Neighbor

"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.

The Scarf Your Mother Knit

The red and black patched knit scarf
came out of the box marked Autumn today.
Wrapped tightly round my nose and mouth
the wind could not bite my
still pinchably cute smile
if you could've seen it
from across the platform at the McDonald St "el".

The lushly woven thing still smells
like the finished wood floors of the old apartment
and the fire places in the mansions upwind
on the other side of the parkway.
The wind shows its teeth again and tries its best
to pluck every hair from my eyebrows,
but I don't mind it.

The scarf and I
we know that somewhere
a flame is bounding up and down
along a length of speckled wood,
saying the right words
in the pop and snap of warm lips
to an audience of
your resting eyes.

Creeper

Can an ear be blamed
for tilting into a
half heard conversation?

Can a thigh be blamed
for making note of a
carelessly applied swatch of skin?

Can a shoulder be blamed
for not giving a
centimeter upon contact?

Can an eye be blamed
for maintaining a
line of sight despite
a crescent of dark
tights clinging for life and limb
to a ripe butt cheek
atop a toned and
sandaled
and
manicured
foot?

I'm just trying to ride the subway.

Excuse me.