[Note: I'm still catching this journal up from the Xanga and hope to move over here shortly]
- - -
A glob of us single persons,
We sit at our own tables
Around empty carousel horses
Far too many horses for two few occupants
Who are waiting around in the food-courts;
Our tables are battle-stations.
Carousel draws our collective glances
Like some drunk aunt making passes
At friends,
Arousing anger,
Sentimental music and revelry suggesting something
Our tables are fortified against.
It's all beneath the surface,
All despite God's given body odours;
We wouldn't mate; we negotiate
Preemptive ceasefires in our glances.
At any rate, we're waiting for others
'Maybe lovers!'
We try to waft to our neighbours
Though more likely waiting for daughters, brothers,
Or friends.
[All this ontology
[Of violence!]
Somewhere someone
No doubt is dropping
Some wayward pick-up line
Not good enough for us, cheesy-
Meaning vulgar as life,
And maybe they'll make some babies;
Meanwhile unadulterated
He mans his station
Glancing at me from there,
No danger here.
Stalemate; thank God,
Here comes my mother
For whom I've waited.
(Maybe
I'll apply to some sisterhood.)
-r
