Image borrowed from YahooThe mobile spins
from a bent wire, like a cage
from the ceiling. It does nothing
to distract me. We play a little game
of waiter and customer; the deeper
he goes, the more it costs. I think
about tablecloths, as his long,
hairy hands fink, absurdly personal,
around my pink sidewalls.
He and his assistant chat
innocuously about the longevity
of parrots and H & R Block.
I listen, as the alien-high squawk
drowns Neil Diamond and spatters
my goggles. Hours later, mute,
I disengage, tumble out
to the magazine readers, fuzzy
and buzzy, like I’ve been shaved
by a drunken barber.
Tess Kincaid
January, 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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