Culture slumming
Talking about a road trip, talking about our rain dance
so as the rain hit we were Cab Calloway cool.
Smoking out back, crying to the sky.
Maybe I fell when you walked towards me?
I should have lost my head but there was something
in the smell of the soil that kept me and I learnt not to question.
The sun was silent in the houses and their bricks,
boulders cracked smiles, an old friend passing us for good.
You blew smoke into my face, you dirt.
Which can’t mean anything other than you hated me everyday.
Even now as your mouth holds tomorrow:
cuckoo, egg, waltz.
But there it was, going and going through the sore sand.
Your hips missed when you pinned me against the fence
of the diner as we kissed.
My sticky back scratched with the honey from your breakfast
and the pulsing in my temple felt like your fingers
on the dashboard when they spelled out:
no matter where I go, I’m going and going.
by SJB
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