Tiffany in the hallways, rubbing her eyes
By: ShinigamiForever

You told me once: you never will have kids because
you are afraid of their screaming
and you had a dream that a mob of little children found you in black and white,
held you down, securing your ten million sprawling imaginations and immeasurable geniuses,
injected you full of vibrant colors and made it so you could never escape.
You are afraid of children screaming, yet you wash your hands twice
under the faucet that sounds like a pregnant woman grunting, or boys playing video games
in the dark.

Drying your hands on a towel,
you watch the angel blotched on your kitchen sink fade.
I do not know what you are thinking about. It is not about me anyway.
You said that when you came into this world
you knew yourself and was born knowing yourself and of yourself.
I think you swallowed yourself when you were born.
I think you are always looking from the inside of a well out,
into daring gray skies and mirthless clouds.
I think no one will ever know you.
I think we shall always know of you.

My window is open. The wind smells
of Williams Carlos Williams; not even that,
it smells of moist displaced soil, Spanish wine, and summer typewriters
undoubtedly subdued and lying in patient wait
for restless hands like captive grass growing in handfuls of heartbeats
and it makes me think of a place I have never seen,
Casablanca or Naples or Paterson.

If you were here, you would close the window. If I were really here,
I would as well.
You are very much like me.
I would not be surprised if sometime later, much later,
in that same frame of mind, I will love you.
That will be when my window is not open,
and when the night does not hurt
and when my eyes are not heavier than the air across your thighs.

Someone told me you kept a chess set in your bathroom
and captured kingdoms while perched, old-man-park-bench-like, on the toilet.
While I am being carried away by gleams from cake-knives promising false premises,
you are probably retracting all your forces and conglomerating the spoils of your war, won.
You won't teach me how to win your games. You won't teach me
how to lose either. I don't believe you've ever lost before.

I will love you.
I have no doubt about this.
I will touch my fingertips to the clumsy creases in your palm
and I will leave, stained to the cuticles with you and your sweatless sincerity.
When they condemn you as
a dreamer with his head locked against the ground
a mathematician who could not add together truths
a soul-less monster of a heartless land
a student, hungry, eager feet pedaling the floor,
I will still love you with

my window
closed.


A/N: For T. & C. A poem about Tiffany from an imagined-Tiffany's point of view. And if any one cares to know, that is Tiffany from my other series, "Breakfast of Champions."