Lorna Zauberberg

Wait for your train in my car by the station

On the wheel, my hands are burning from the cold

What do you dream as you doze against the window?

And will you tell the dream when you come home?

Virility is in the house of lesser than

And in breakfast we get by on charm alone

The sun beats down on immaculate beige carpets

And the plank of spoons bounce off the off-white wall

I flipped through the music that you left

All the old cassettes that lean against the wall

I ate all the peaches off the shelf

And I rearranged the cans into a poem

Vicious mobs of candy-ravers stalk the night

And methadonians sleep right where they stand

A weeping tranny is cradling a steak knife

And you're happily slugging Rob Roys with your man

I fold all the sweaters in the drawer

And I smelled your smell and I held one to my nose

Lay awake to the drizzle on window

As the swan neck of the fan sweeps back and forth