~~~
Table Talk
~~~
Her foot eventually signals its presence on
the edge of my chair
by means of one whispering tap upon
my ghostly rubies.
~
“I still believe in transient relationships,”
says the newly-arrived shade
of Diana.
“In fact, before he hung me by the neck
until dead from that wearisome tree, the
sheriff & I…”
~
Diana stops talking with
her mouth.
She now talks with
her foot. Her toes, especially the big one, tell
the torrid tale.
Her heel grinds home the punch line.
~
“The sheriff & you ~ what?”
~
Now her eyes quietly repeat
the confession of lewd debauchery
page after page after page
in about 7 zooming seconds.
~
She smiles.
~
Horrified I howl,
“No, not the sheriff!”
My fist slams down on the table, which
disintegrates into a pile of dust, there in
the broken-down hotel cafe.
~
Diana is standing now, chair discarded.
She steps forward.
Little puffs of dust arise.
“Poor boy. You’re upset over nothing.”
~
She’s still smiling. She can’t help it.
~
“Nothing?” I howl ~ still sitting.
~
“Nothing,” she sighs.
She steps closer closer ~ looms
over me like
The Statue of Liberty
come alive & opening her court-room robe.
~
My eyes go cross-eye-ed
and my soul becomes unglued
by the close proximity of the
living tabernacle of the sacred light!
~
(Copyright Clyde Collins 2012)
~~~
