She sits behind the desk, a-pickin’ at her skin
Solitaire and country music and stories that take too long
to finish
The spot behind the chair has worn away with years of
Accumulated friction of wall/chair, wall/chair, wall/chair
54 years old and lives alone, cause husband’s gone and kids
are grown
She don’t know that I’m writin’ this song to say
Arvada,
you’re the queen of cold, reluctant grandmother to the loons,
Washer of soiled laundry and occasional ashtray wiper
Step aside, you’ve had your day
You ruthlessly refuse a cigarette to shoeless Melinda,
Night-shuffling, bloodstained beauty
(who’s butt was once seen by Mark Ginter,
a uni-hemispherical brain child).
Nonetheless, Melinda’s toes, blackened, stubs,
Partially
amputated and covered in
Cigarette ash on the soles, will walk on
Unadorned by
podiatric protection
FOREVER AND EVER UNTIL ALL HER SLAVES ARE FREE,
Cigarettes or no. Amen.
So go on,
Go on back to your ten acres in Princeton,
Down the foggy 45,
Into the night turned morning of your after work hours
Take your Tahoe, your Reno,
And your stories about your precious son
And your goddamned world’s only electric river ferry
And your purple polyester pants and green windbreaker
And GO
