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| Trouble with a capital T |
Mel Pappas, you're insane.
She's trouble with a capital T, and that cigar! So what if she swaggers when she walks And it makes your knees go weak? That's no reason to go lovesick and stupid Over some Yankee vagabond. So what if her rolling her sleeves up Makes you want to swoon in her arms? You're Southern, born and bred. You'd swoon at the drop of a hat. |
| She Never |
She's missing
Like the arm that soldier lost in the war. I'm woken like a shock Expecting her there Where she never slept. "Janice?" Out of my sleepy mouth. My neck's prickling Like an angry dog. |
| Her Sleeping Breath |
Her hands
Curl like puppets with no puppeteer A lock of hair Bronze in moonlight Copper in sunlight drifts in her sleeping breath. Her lips pouting for a kiss till I recall bruises. She's naked. A bedsheet for decorum. I'd blushed stripping bourbon-sour khakis >From that wonder. Her body. Angles of light and shadow Hint at curves. I had not lingered - Decency, Melinda - where my hands had brushed. Where my eyes linger now. |
| Sunlight |
Sunlight has no manners.
I squint at the brightness Fumble my glasses Pull the drapes closed. Janice is hungover And prone to cursing. |
| The Art of the Bow Tie |
"Dance with me?"
She's made an effort, Rented tux, but - oh Janice - "Where'd you learn to tie a bow tie?" Red cheeks, shrug. No translation needed. I used to do my daddy's tie. My daddy was tall. On bent knee before her I'm blushing. The heels of my hands Brush softness. Nothing else comes close to this. Her skin through starched shirt-front burns. Her tie is neat. I'm a mess. Dancing slow with the girl of my dreams. |
| Janice's Tears |
When we make love
Janice weeps in my arms Release brings tears. No tears now. Lip split and bleeding. Gun at her head. No tears here. She's stone, My Janice. |
