November 3, 2008

Sepia Fingerless Gloves Cliché

Affecting familiarity against my instincts lest it all rot.
We find ourselves on a strange stoop
In a strange city on a day stranger still.

Quick for step you struck up conversation.
Hook and latch from hint to hint.
The weather, an Aunt, a school, financial ruin
In the not-too-distant past. Button to button to pin to pin.

Did you know your mother? Your father?
We haven’t gotten that far back in the real world
Where we’re anonymous faces,
Self-fashioned grifters running from debt

Of one kind or another. And televisions bark
Landfall predictions for the season’s next named storm.

Pose, you say, this one is for Auntie.