JEAN STAPLETON PLAYS THE PIANO
I wish I could tell them
they’re missing it.
Contoured faces facing screens,
chasing likes and
Accolade figments, lost pigments
But I grew in color.
And my memories reflect the winding rhymes,
poetic times of my history,
& all that teen angst.
I think back and say thanks
where we’d park in crooked ways,
sit in places
that weren’t spaces
I was the car worth last pennies
driving you clear out of a town that never saw you,
with besties in the back;
the ones you never see now.
The gloss-lipped, pink sugared girl
in the front passenger seat
Hot summer nights.
The Making [of] Plans for Nigel
in basement bars that wouldn’t dare serve us.
But we served relentless…
All-Starred soles and eyeliner
smudged in all the right places,
like your hands upon my
unblemished skin in your backseat.
Fly as all the fucks we never gave
while skirting sex,
wet with sweat
like condensated windows.
I miss it.
And parts of me would sell soul shards
to revisit a season
where I had everything
and nothing at all.
If I could,
I would to them say:
“don’t welcome winter without reveling in your spring-sprung spectral bloom.”
And if they’d wash it all off
and raise a fresh face to the sun,
they’d surely see the light
in more ways than one.