Silver clouds move slow.
As the sky rests cold above
a man changes clothes.

The tomato earth churns
industriously below.
He borrows a sweater from Roma.

Green smoke rolls through the valley.
The man adjusts his collar
and smiles, looking for pants.

He talks to the Goddess.
She talks right back at him
with her terrible form.

Blood, fire, demon heads,
swords and death drums
hurled from the smoke,

all miss his hunkered down body.
He listens underneath
to her garbage dump wisdom.

The lords of the heap look on
with slumped backs and missing limbs.
Jesus didn’t want her.

His tin foil cross and tuna fish sandals
quivered in her presence.
Buddha wasn’t interested either.

He stacked the empty barrels,
climbing the mountain quietly
with only a plastic Tupperware bowl to his name.

Through Ziploc memory
the man curls himself around a center
and makes like iceberg lettuce.

One by one she pulls at his leaves,
burns them in the fire around her head,
until the man resembles only a crunchy white core,

which she patiently disassembles.
He is no longer there, but she hears him
laughing nearby and chewing asparagus.


1 Comment

Filed under poetry

One response to “leftovers

  1. This is a wonderful poem! I love the second stanza: “He talks to the Goddess./ She talks right back at him/ with her terrible form.” Right on! Thank you for sharing it with all of us, your blog is highly interesting!

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