Little One

It's not the music that makes you dance, little darling. The clapboard is fresh. You can see the shiny nails. Rub your finger against the moody surface. You can't imagine how many splinters, little darling. Into the skin like a sinking ship. We've replaced everything, but it's still not good enough. Not good enough for Guaguancó. Only fuel for Suelta. In a little room and board near the flower shop. Near the undertaker. Next to the butcher. Where you spent our youth, little darling. Like so many coins in a fountain. You braved the coldest winter by clutching into me. You speak of it in passing, in interview, with paint on your breath. What did it define, little darling? You still have soft hands and hard feet. You still prefer oranges to almost anything. You still have small slivers of me in cross brace. Your framework is still ancient, little one. Your beams are spanking dirty. The foundation below your exclamation points is Mayan dust. Your pillars are African and Asian and Aryan, little darling. Those joists were cut down with mushroom fever. Tied to your nipples like great battle axes. The studs were carried from Eurasian villages, dropped into reindeer wells. Your streams are clear, little darling. But your swirls are violent, nonconforming, misbehaving.
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8.30.10