I try to listen to more
than what I’ve just read on newsprint
more than variegated bird impressions
born of velvet throats
while small tendony talons
shove off lush twigs
that push back
many shades of green in tow.

I want to hear what is imperceptibly private to me
call it my soul in want of a better cliché
call it my queen for a day
the lucky housewife in short white gloves
and tulip skirt
whose smile the shade of hades fire
ignores the furtive stranger
on her tongue
all manner of unprovoked celebrity
yet sorely needed exposé
of broad cast discontent she’s never let
her insides tell the world ‘til now
with one royal flush
her ruby slipper dangling from her toe
she rushes to her madness
and a crown.

Susan Weber

POEMS