Peter DavisPeter Davis
I’m here. The beach
is full of sand and the water stretches into
the ocean like the sky’s giant
tongue. Your boat, on the horizon,
is a swallowed tonsil.
I couldn’t believe what you said. Even
now I’m having trouble understanding the dialect
you were speaking. Am I crazy, or is your nation
becoming diverse and independent? I hope
your democracy is going good. Here
everyone is a stranger and the songs
on the radio all use the phrase, “I’m dead.”
I miss you so! My legs have gotten
better but you’re my main concern.
I’ll call when I can. Tonight, on
this dusty dune, I thought of our night together
in the elaborate hotel. You were wearing
an Egyptian cat mask and I was holding
a scepter that we all know stands for something.
Postcard at Night
I’m sorry about the darkness
I’ve caused. Forget it. It’s fucking beautiful
here and the women are all gorgeous and the
men are all as tan as Roman pennies.
If you make it, I’ll be at the bus stop waiting.
I will be the one with tiny campfires on my
I don’t mean to rush you regarding
the previously mailed manuscript, but
my mother has been in a coma for years
and I fear I’m losing sight of the eternity
waiting beyond this life…in the neighborhood
streets, children on skateboards push each other
down driveways lined with rose bushes and
exotic plants that don’t have names.
return to SHAMPOO 17
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