[Portrait of Mrs. Boucard by Tamara de Lempicka]
Darling, the Brick’s Disintegrating
Darling, the brick’s disintegrating.
The low wall on the driveway is nearly
no wall at all. The grass grows through
the cracked tar face.
During the long day draped
in my duster, I gaze
from the nylon bed of the lawn
chair, count the colors of metal
on the freeway. My vision persists
in blending them to chocolate,
insists on the scene of your homecoming.
You roll up and park, flattening
grass in sticky tar. You smell
of truckstops, bars
and hotel conference rooms. We make dry
love. You go.
the fourth dose with a little
milk then paint
my nails with a third coat.
The fumes lacquer the air—
I feel heady.
Staring through the picture
window I dream of your foot
on the gas as you edge
up to pass on the right
but you’re in the wrong and you smack
to the concrete divider.
Fenced in by plate glass, I watch
the grass snake
up the legs
of the lawn