Beer Helmet

The clouds are breaking apart,
the sun slips through,
the floor needs sweeping.

Madame Bovary signals from across the street.

It’s like a midnight movie at
high noon
flicker of wings maybe
seashells & cigarettes,
eye shadow & motor oil. A pair of
rose-colored goggles for the night crew.

I am assuming a monastic recalcitrance
falling like an ornamental plum tree
when no one’s looking

which is why I am telling you about it

the x-factor like funk & circumstance

gathering up all your dark veins