Wave your kerchiefs to the back porch, boys; She's colonial,
sunk, an offering to Isabel's vegetable garden. Newly
muddied bodies struggle against the at-capacities of their lamplit
kitchen twenties.
Isabel,
Put down your glass spilling tea leaves in the eyes you catch.
Be barefoot in your stepstepping over giggling bodies of floor girls
Like spells all named Jenevieve-from-The-Midwest.
Where's the music? All we have is the guitarboy and no one can abide him.
We need more money for a beer run to the cat store.
If the cats are stretching everything is fine,
Say the Jenevieves, counting change.
And the cats are stretching, innumerable, nameless and Jenevieve,
bulging eyed strays caught in a mid yawn announcing
sharp afraids to call my landlord,
hissing sad whimsy of a city built for hills.
Isabel will make tea.
