Dead Matter

I am dwarfed by this
dead matter,
arc my eyes down a running
rainbow curving off her fingertip,
a pot of gold there, through
her hair now, quickly,
a flip,
and I continue:
Robinson is either lying about
Central America,
or he is stupid.
She shrugs, looks
over her shoulder at
a man walking, tall man,
toward the bathrooms.
There is a poem, I say,
by Alex Comfort concerning
freedom...
What? she frowns.
I like your nails, I say.
Thanks, she smiles, I cried
when I broke
this one.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, April 26, 1987)