Читать книгу Match - Helen Guri - Страница 8

Empty nester – my Kinder eggs hatched

one by one into the thumb-tarnished world:

an ex-wife, then peck marks of red-breasted predators,

electronic footprints. No kids.

So it’s lucky I loathe a vacuum –

life at home is teeming.

O census-takers of the five-to-nine,

see how I slip through a cloud-glass pane

and seal it like a wheel-and-deal,

empty my pockets for the throb of red fruits

in a hothouse of off-hours.

Where my libido sends its sweet-pea runners up the walls,

and by sundown even my plantar wart’s in flower.

Tonight’s to-do of miracles

under the clear big top:

transmute self to pasture,

turn the TV loose to graze.

Let cross-breezes play my penny-flute holes,

UFOs tortoise me in polka-dot code.

While it sleeps, nip the lexicon’s wings.

A personal ad lobbed like a rock into dusk

gives edge to my pastoral sprawl:

Looking for a top-dresser in a biplane,

a Jeannie Epper pressure-hoser

of pheromone fairy dust,

glass-ceiling trasher

a stem’s breadth from crack-and-burn.