emotion tree

She sat barefoot in the middle
of the floor,
on sunlit boards browning
in late afternoon.
Surrounded by lengths
of copper tubing.
Attaching paper notes
to curling branches
with surgical precision.
Tied off with string. Wire.

"How do you like my emotion
tree ?" she asked.

I licked the gummed margin
spilling tobacco,
and spoke out the corner
of my rolled up twist.

"It looks like it needs a Valium,
doll," I said.




On a good day
I feel a lot like Jim Thompson.

On a bad day
I sound like Ernest Borgnine.

illustration by ib.