Petals and Beagles
by Stephen Earley Jordan II
I wish I knew who lived above me in apartment 4C.
At 3:17am on fridays, tuesdays and wednesdays
and sometimes mondays and thursdays,
I hear rose petals crushed under workboots,
homemade butterscotch stirred
with a wooden-handle spoon,
cartoons switching to reruns of MASH.
I wake myself sweating
like your mother's menstruation (long gone),
wiping myself in 500-count silk sheets,
remembering when you forced me to watch
Comet and Snickers, your childhood male beagles,
give IT to each other, grunting and barking and panting
while I shivered in the corner of the toolshed
your father made just for them,
the hamsters, gerbils, and rabbits.
With a slight grin, eyebrow raised,
smelling of aqua velva aftershave,
and bubbalicious bubble gum,
you said, "This is between us."
You were sent away, somewhere far away
like a deferred dream,
where falling stars are caught
and placed into position by black cherubs,
where boys become men
with blinded wives,
and you will forget me.