Clam
Take me inside.
These fragile tables,
these empty vases,
these antique chairs
have seen better days,
my friend. Outside,
weathered birds
poke hole after hole
into crooked trees,
furiously feeding,
deeply stabbing
at the edges. Take
me inside. Alone,
I sit and sip, shifting
through lost ones,
and I wonder where
you are dance-running,
searching for Sugarman,
telling each stranger
about your latest
revelation -- the long
version, freestyle,
whether or not the line
stretches down the aisle.
Tomorrow, you’ll fly
to Africa. Tomorrow,
you’ll buy a hand drum.
Tomorrow, you’ll catch
the lucky shot -- the rarest
herd of albino deer.
Tomorrow, you’ll find
the hidden fork --
a lost, forgotten path
within the infamous
trail. Tomorrow,
you'll be the first man
to ever feel each layer
of rainbow, painting
your fingertips with dew,
holding the most elusive
shades and tones,
one for each day
we live. Surround me
in your overcoat.
Take me inside
your ghetto or classy
room. Take me inside
where ceilings hold
stars and planets.
Take me inside,
where I can twist
the black band
from your hair,
letting it down loose,
whether tangled
or smooth. I will wear
your hippie hat.
I can almost taste
your too-sweet tea.
Take me inside.
Let me slide
like a clam
down your throat.
C.A. MacConnell
