Gestures, By Which, She Hopes To Unfurl
by @swiggins
Are they strictly local?
I wonder what, of her inspirations,
she’s seeking through the Sun
Whatever it is,
It is something
I walk away again.
Hollywood again.
He leaps down unto the glossy sheen
arms out back straight chin raised
No.
But I’ve been trying.
Or, softly pirouetting Fred Astaire
Tuxedo’d tails like bird’s wings
hang low on the body
Cuz I’ve been trying.
In turn, she’s losing the Sun.
It rests like a clear bubble
Large, between.
Amorphous.
It is,
in as much as
It isn’t.
Is she done yet?
I saunter over.
No.
Where you from?
The phone rests precariously
On the metallic lawnchair,
filming.
I have to move my seat.
LOUD is always the giveaway
What I’ve just realised is that
I have never heard my neighbour laugh.
Criticisms anchor,
Bewildering.
I wonder does
she bounce awake,
up and into the early morning
tap dancing?
An off-key bleat pierces
before even the coffee beans
can be ground down
For a long time I look out the window
standing in the place of
any and all distractions.
Pinned to the wall.
Can you ever leave Hollywood?
But, here I am again!
Splat.
I mean, really?
Since I was 17!
No.
She’s practicing her lines to the
Atmosphere.
Thrashing, like so.
Suggesting, rather.
She,
Seated in the other, resorts to
Choreography.
There she is,
Transfixing.
Again,
another one.