|sign @ Target (bathroom)|
Le plus beau langage du monde
est celui que vos yeux utilisent.
It’s Tuesday night & we’re out for family dinner,
mac n’ cheese & chicken fingers
I am sorry, can I get a side of ranch
My boys like to mix it with ketchup
Uh-huh, the waitress grunts then disappears
among the noise; clatter of forks on plates,
moving lips in conversation utterance
& secret meetings
At the bar, they smile & sparkle at canned French
phrases delivered with just the right intonation
to hide hillbilly accents
(Ok, not really)
& some memorized Neruda,
(I've never heard Spanish quite like that either)
Hey ya’ll look I'm cultured!
& when one excuses himself to the restroom,
the girls giggle, tickled at his audacity
but she’ll probably have sex with him, anyway
The future waits for no one, you know---
& did you see those biceps?
These are fleeting, though, it’s the one in the corner
booth that’s dangerous---leaning in, intently listening,
only occasionally asking questions to keep
not of family or kids, work or the weather
they are talking about but her---
dreams, the things she always wants to say but
has only found the courage in his willingness
She’s smiling, his bare fingers grace hers, just enough
to remind her but no further, warm neon glow
reflecting on her ring
Here is your ranch
We eat, don’t see her again until after,
through the window, alone in a minivan
already life drains from her face
as headlights point the way home
Over @ dVerse Poets today, K of ManicDDaily will be taking us on a little french twist tour in our poetry prompt. Are french fries really from France? I wonder sometimes. It's all french all day...smiles. She will open the doors at 3 pm.
I performed this last night in Richmond, VA...not near France.