Four Septets in July

Your face enters my mind whenever I'm being read to,
which pisses me off because I'm not really listening.
The town cryer's lips flap and vibrate with precision,
sending spit and sound into eternal orbit.
They sing of "Last loves", Vietnam, and pious abuelas.
They dream of Krispy Kream Krosants and great minds lost,
as they lead our souls through caves of crystal and dine on the flesh of men.

These tales, however intriguing, fade away;
turn to tongue tingles, as we sit at a well’s edge and release our buckets,
pulling up and drinking whatever the darkness gave.
I'm there, putting a trash can in front of you,
because I knew you'd throw up as soon as it hit your lips.
It's your "hi's" in the morning that sound soft and sweet,
almost like you're embarrassed to say them.

I think about how perfect you fit against me;
like a cold room and heavy blankets.
You can put me in eye shadow and I’ll take you shakedown;
We’ll tip our hats to stagger Lee and dance with cowboy Neal,
as he burns down the circus and brings down the building,
blaming Jesus and his cronies for all the rubble.
We have fun.

There's a frantic softness within this romance.
The dogs lurking in the shadows are jealous,
and their raccoon eyes need to eat.
A pair of bullets for a pair of minds:
the last chapter of the first book rides shotgun,
and tickets to the last dance will be sold at the venue.
The dress code is sharp, and the night is still young.

Keegan Shaw 7/10/20