Writing Weird
Since you left I’ve been writing weird.
In my effort not to crawl back,
I starved myself to a whisker moon.
Alone in lostness, with my new Barbie body,
I teeter across the four-lane, in six-inch stilettos,
without a blink of my swimming pool-blue eyes.
All four lanes screech to a stop. It must be
that my waist-length bleached-blond tresses
blind those attention-starved drivers.
I remember our camping trip to Reno
in my bubblegum-pink convertible camper
with its cabana awning and fold-up recliners.
We called route 66 a river, squatted in the motel
and swilled dry martinis. We didn’t care
if the beer nuts were stale. We’d cashed in our chips,
sold our condo in Malibu and put the twins
in foster care. Where are you Ken?
I miss your square jaw.