A buried appliance speaks


I crack you open like a ripe melon
and the paintings strip off your face
like dead leaves rustling down, down to the floor


Lost in the color
a boy from somewhere East of here
mother with the risqué hair
she smiles
he opens
they all remind


the verses like banners
are there if you care to find them
in the harried moments
when voices rise sharp
sometimes banners cover the ever-ready sin
of mid-day tongues


and the last year's daughter
glowers
a harbinger above another banner
a landmark reminder of praise
prayer


dreams are buried on your once-white skin
like a wrinkled old woman's 
collecting dirt in the roadmap of life's waste


in the curled paper dripping from the waves of clutter
stands a round Queen Genevieve
Queen Mama
"proud" purveyor of your contents
"overseer" of this mess

Ah.
I envision the crown on head
my hair not risqué
and bend again
to pick them up,
precious paintings
...even if there are thousands....
and fasten them with dreams and banners
because I cannot seem to find my garbage can.