Arvada

 

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