| Buggie |
|
| I just wanted |
| to get up and leave. |
|
| You can just |
| get up and leave. |
|
| You you you: |
| well what is this: |
|
| I hold up a mirror, |
| two mirrors, |
|
| see her again |
| and again, |
|
| came to celebrate, |
| itemize her, |
|
| prop her up with a name, |
| any name, |
|
| called her, called her Buggie, |
| let her, |
|
| she’d cry
"woogie-woogie," |
| let me, |
|
| I just lie back, |
| tendon whips the bone, |
|
| the right side hurts, |
| whatever’s new. |
|
|
|
| "What’s your
nationality?" |
| I ask. |
|
| "Oh I’m just sort of |
| stitched together." |
|
| Here she is again, |
| all this work collected, |
|
| move her right along, |
| headlong... |
|
| When it’s time for joking |
| she’d pick me up by the lobes, |
|
| but then I used to hold her |
| like a coffee mug, |
|
| color her by any numbers, |
| click her back and forth, |
|
| hold her by her string |
| and fly her like a kite. |
|
| Listen, I’m lost by now, |
| she’s graphite to the zipper, |
|
| so after a night full of this |
| I turn and say, |
|
| "You must be Portuguese: |
| I’ve had to use a corkscrew
again." |
|
|
|
|
| Bruce R. Macdonald |
