The Donut World is Empty
It's Denver October balmy across
From the Queen Super, an outdoor
Table at the bagelry in this city
All miraculously bland. She
Comes out with her dog on a leash
To sit at the next table, a black
Crepe micro-mini, no skivvies
Under; head shaved, two tufts
Of hair pale blue spouting from
Skull above the ears. A three inch
Studded bondage collar cuffs
Her long neck, and wristlets too.
She's been pierced generously
In nose, lips, ears, and a chain
From her navel ring runs under
The skirt to someplace else.
The message, "IF YOU AIN’T A WEST
MINSTER COP YOU AIN’T SHIT”
arcs across her grey T-shirt.
A few insect tattoos discretely set
Peek out from waist and neckband.
She is impeccable, and lovely,
Her skin a cream of youth, her glance
Aloof and innocent, maybe seventeen.
She eats her bagel with meticulous
Pleasure, reducing its outer
Circumference nibble by nibble,
Towards the center. The dog,
An old one like me, whines
As I would were I leashed
To her chair, raises up and vocalizes
His yearning. He wants his share
Of the biscuit. Commerce
At the super market is heavy,
People escaping with carts down
The streets to their apartments.
My lady looks down at her old
Pup and he whines. How he aches
To be herself. To him her tufts
Of hair have the pale blue sheen
Of diaphanous wings. He wants
So little, so much. She points
At him and firmly says, "Fuck
You," and he backs down.
I'm watching this, my own bagel
In my mouth, a retro buckaroo.
"Fuck you," and his jowls return,
Disposed to the indifferent
Pavement of Denver, Colorado.
Steve Katz 669 Washington St. #602 Denver, Colorado 80203
