Post Traumatic Bathtub Disorder
On the terrace of a twilight world
Time sighed a moment to let things be.
’That’s the evening star’ I say - ‘Venus.’
And the wall against my back is warm.
‘Pass me the beer.’ She replies
Her words spill into the atmosphere
like wishes soon forgotten.
And everywhere the trees assume
their shadow posts for the interlude of night.
Somewhere a thousand feet below
the radio plays faintly
notes reaching in two’s and three’s
Bollywood lost and then returning
as do the empty oyster shells of thought
where pearls have vanished or have yet to grow-
’So that’s Venus.’ She murmurs,
Her voice closer, legs crossed.
Lips of soft smoke, chips, cherry,
and a dewy something unascertained.
And then a thought crossed my mind-
And then it disappeared-
As the cigarette box jived across the dance floor.
