Fuck yeah! I've been a big promoter of the orange doorhinge rhyme for fucking years... and now, a poem
*Waltz in Washington Square*
The batteries drum on like all her button-breaking, zipper-pulling,
pill-induced motions,
Stuccoing the arch where our abdomens meet,
making fresh renovations to cast rehashed shadows
on that sickle-celled square
where black-jack sax beggars still beg to the beat,
motioning the space-time frieze.
She is time herself because time herself
has stepped outside
for a cigarette, a comma, and a petty manicure,
tapping pink fingernails to the beat.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
But what color will her cuticles be
when maggots lap at her feet,
when coffin-colored cubicles
have all but torn her dainty hands apart?
1.
2.
3.
Mushroom cloud blue
and then time will cease.
But, still, I am willing to cough up a roll of quarters
just for her,
my
my
my
Vending machine girl:
Concessions for a longer life.