Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Monday Afternoon

I open a drawer
to butterflies,
insane
bagfuls of kisses,
unable to answer the knife,
the Saturday afternoon
burning the jar
Black.
The baby clock
rings at me
as if I were a man
in a four dollar room
looking for socks.
I am
a peach,
decent
as gold.
A Cadillac
of feelings.
My mouth is better than
spoon,
better than music.
I am a bed
gone
wrinkled
never to be let in.
I laugh
at the fearful,
the hobbled sleep of illness,
and the conversation
of dead birds.
If only
the waitress would bring me
my bill,
my life would be
complete.