It was a business foot massage
That pulled me
Kicking and screaming
Into her arms.
I am a birth-bred
And she let me siphon off some of her
Acrid, stinging hatred.
“How are you, Ms. Johnson? Is there anything
I can help with?”
It was my mantra.
I spoke the same words softly
The sun rose without me,
Forgetting that I was in
While I filed her papers and pressed my clammy
Flaccid hands all over her
Life’s hollow passion.
She never approved of my
Heady attempts to please
She was twelve steps away from the wagon
That she would never get within
Ten feet of.
While I was kissing ass and
That darling dear
Held fingers toward the sun
And sucked crystals out
Of the gleaming sky and smoggy world
And wondered where yesterday
Had faded away to.
She came in from the cold once
Raindrops skating down her cheeks
Euphoric tears of a world spinning
Dizzy and unhelpful
Her hair clung to her face
And her dark and empty eyes
Peeled like grapes and shining
She said she was embarrassed by me
That my fingernails grew every time I lied
And that pink clouds followed me around
Like heavy scoops of sherbert.
I let her rant.
Ms. Johnson might have been out
But I was still rubbing her bony
Feet and taking in the smells
Of success and money and between-toes lint.
She thought of me as a maid
A life-size doll with glass eyes
I drank every word she said in double shooters
Letting my heavy cerebellum walk
Drowning with words and love
And the need to be
She talked for a long time while the brilliancy dimmed
From the western sky and the shafts of light
Were flooding out instead of in
And she was framed by the skyline of a city not yet born.
“And that’s why,” she concluded
Her voice frantic and all clawed up from
“That’s why I hate you.”