a lovely mess
august 25, 1994

Sophie, ah Sophie, (she's a mess but such a lovely mess)
she doesn't know whether to mourn or giggle
howl against the moon or slowly discourse the arts
love for all she's worth or invest in sacred covenants
meet behind the museum at 1 a.m. with a bottle of red
and a secret deal, with him, with him

she walks south past the city limit, through barren suburbs
with barking gargoyles tied to rear fences
she panics along highway 21 like a wise trotting dog
who looks as if she's cocksure of the direction of her nose
past dull fields, stubble brown and thick hewn
near 24-hour truck stops and bargain motels,
where stench of diesel and infidelity
remind her of all that's run away
she moves past hollow grey barns that lean in Fall drizzle,
nestle in January snow, weep in grey-lit May,
and are ringed in insipid, slow green
she dead reckons star splattered nights with a spatula and spoon
and sniffs her way home to the monster, Responsibility
she creates divine art that embodies all that is darkly feminine
in her basement, is a journey of shifting states of metal
and there's a cruel river and a pink boat with a girl named Kitty
who cries ALLTHEFUCKINGTIME and shaved off all her hair,
and only has one oar and she makes time to love me (because i thought i knew her from zero second) and i am pushed against her by an unexpected gust and i still can't tell the difference between an interesting woman and one who is perhaps, completely insane/

© Thomas Trofimuk

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