7/14--Hôtel Mathieu

Once again, I'm giving the finger to expectations and gender roles and writing a non-romantically themed poem about a guy.
Here's to you, Matthew. Thanks for existing.

-db.

***


Hôtel Mathieu

You would sit on the sofa, awaiting the tragedy
of the day
like the dog-eared page
in the bathroom Reader’s Digest.
I’d tell you the tale directly from the tarot cards
that I thought spelled out my fate
as I flipped them over and over in my brain.

My psycho-astrology was fucked.
I’m a red beret lunatic born on a cursed day: November 3
when death has lost it’s novelty
there are no daisies in my eye sockets
and my candy skull dissolved in the rain.
There are no saints on my playing cards
I no longer fish for Saint Anthony
when I lose my keys.

You nod at my metaphors as you stir the macaroni,
the gypsy punk at the antique stove.
I’ve been comfortable staying in your film noir hotel
where it is all black curtains and red scarves
over white paper lamps.
Photographs of inky women with skin like paper
beauty is all chemical
all grayscale.

Lately you don’t mind my lack of scandal.
Everyone needs the neutral poet who only makes love
to her green desk lamp.

Hold the umbrella, amigo.
It’s been raining all morning.