sleepy mausoleum streets

father’s day
is the homecoming dance
for this grown woman
made from herringbone brick
daddy issues

a wedding march return
deliberately stepped
to beethoven’s violent concerto for violin
toward the white columned mansion
along walkways
of gray flagstone facts

the gossamer temple of my dysfunction
surrounded by iron lace gates

fences drooping
with blood red azalea intentions

a corsage of deceptive bougainvillea
climbs my wrist

wearing a gown
made from the transparent fabric
of a penchant for older men

who hail from anywhere but my garden district

chosen out of a police station line up
in the irish channel

my ill fated princes and usual suspects
who were crepe myrtle framed

not one of whom turned into my father

vagabonds
poets
musicians
actors
gangsters
swaying priests
clever pimps
and common thieves

even a shoe salesman
who was 17 and finding reasons
to touch the ladies’ thighs
whilst i was existing
in a new world elsewhere
still cutting my baby teeth

i’ve grown tired of their flowers
and the scent of poorly masked death

two people fit uncomfortably in a casket

time has given me an alternative
housed within clean lines and reason

but occasionally
wearing a veil of futility
my
horse drawn thoughts

return to the beautiful south

ken burns following behind me
filming a sepia toned documentary

about the brutal unreality
of it’s sleepy mausoleum streets