Vincent Price’s Daughter

I remember when they brought you home
all snotty and cross
swaddled in pink vomit of roses
a kid
self-serving definitions handled
soon’s casket on call
where the bashful make shyness a routine
where hiding’s a drug
when there’s nobody for no one nowhere

I remember when they took you away
all superimposed gentleness
and a famous disregard for fame
a wannabe heroine addicted to spearmint gum
shooting dukes down the alley
wary and worn and whittled to a pie tin’s crinkly edge
or shouting, “Be discreet, you asshole!”
that too

I don’t remember when I stopped trying to care
all the weddings and graveyards gone by
windows left open to plummet out of
pictures lost in suffering’s sucker punch
pictures of you and me and you and me and you
and you and you and you

“And what, pray tell, are you doing in this place tonight?”
“I come here on early Saturdays sometimes.”
“You do? I’ve never seen you here before.”
“It’s not as often as I’d like.”
“That makes two of us.”
“This music really makes one well up, doesn’t it?”
“It’ll do that to you with the aid of a martini or three, if you’re not careful.”
“Whatever do you know about martinis?”
“Olives and alcohol.”
“That’s about it, I guess.”
“So, are we going to dance or just sit here gawking at each other?”
“Yes. Let’s.”

Wine-heavy in the giddiest of ways
tell-tale in the paunchy gut of love’s posture
a drip of mustache to slip over a staunch disregard for convention
you’ve made too many rights to mistake what’s left for what’s been
restaurant French and all
for an Elizabeth Taylor salad before a compote of Farley Granger
settle down and stay seated on my aisle-side
so you can betray me
and mean it this time

you’re in my dreams anyway

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