Plastic Plant Sundays
Not only I am writing more rhymed poetry, I'm getting into structure as well. This one, a poem I mentioned a long time ago, is a villanelle.
Plastic Plant Sundays
The blankness of the booth accuses me,
The other seat stares at me silently.
The blankness of the booth accuses me,
I stare at the plastic plant on the wall,
The other seat stares at me silently.
Ah, weekend sex for my mendacity—
I was more plastic than her plants that fall.
The blankness of the booth accuses me.
Sharing Sunday breakfast banality—
Later one Sunday, dish washing tears fall.
The other seat stares at me silently.
A young girl sits one booth over from me,
Her boyfriend-to-be toward the wall.
The blankness of the booth accuses me.
As I scribble, my eyes dart glancingly—
Her flushed cheeks silently take me in thrall.
The other seat stares at me silently.
She talks of "unused sexual energy".
Just like a woman—three words and you're small.
The blankness of the booth accuses me,
The other seat stares at me silently.
