Starry Eyed

The water heater in the corner gurgled 
regrets behind a silver satin screen
as similar strangers burned rubber
leaving the long-empty parking lot.  
My mop's moldy pine smell was enough 
romance for me, *Stella Starr*, the *exotic dancer* 
who knew that being seduced 
was like being laughed at.  But nothing 
was as bad as being alone in the dark.

Mornings at The Piranha Lounge 
came in the afternoon.  I made coffee 
like I imagined wives did, re-cleaning 
and meticulously measuring everything.
I unfolded the morning paper like I was important,
making a lot of noise, ignoring creases,
making a point of being alone.
When you make a living being stared at, 
you can't be too alone.

Bars of hard yellow sun pinched 
through venetian blinds
magnifying everything 
into ugliness.  I could see
brown dirt on black paint, 
tiny cracks in my cup, memories 
overtaking the backs 
of my hands trembling 
for the vodka in my coffee.

I would plop my feet up on the table
and bump my pink fuzzy slippers together 
in a shaft of sun, sending bits of sparkling 
dust tumbling like lost stars in the tears 
confusing my eyes ~ one for every kiss 
that made the night a little darker, 
made the dawn blaze 
with a brighter shame 
reminding me 
of my beauty 
by blinding me.




copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer