Late autumn afternoon 2012,
shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan
rascality in the air.
A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties
cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at
our door.
Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails
with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet
of roses at blind gossip columns.
Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to
rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage
here & there about her person.
Was made to understand that her lover
was inside, that beyond me was her
very reason.
The silk linings of bat wings spilled out
this address, what was stated to the
contrary was only absorbed by unfocused
determination.
The American dross of Polish
bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.
An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,
her lover was bound to come out, as
authorities were bound not to be called.
From the second floor window, all things
shiny converged on her with gruff
frequencies & thickening uniforms.
Police stood beside her & set in, as she
got into schoolgirl trouble.
By the time medics took over she was
submerging her private island.
There she was, being strapped to a
pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat
tipping itself.
Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,
save for the bouquet of roses that hung
out & clotted from her right hand.
As the stretcher popped up it was like
her soul was going to leave her body,
rose petals struggle-strewn across it.