Floydd Elliott


by Floydd Elliott

     		Lights off and Andy’s stars shine 
down from the ceiling.  I don’t know 
	any of them, but they all seem nice 
		enough.  Buttons sewn into a circle 
pattern, a wreath.  Must be dozens of them, their 
	function subverted 
		for the sake of art.  The smell of man 
I drank up 
	has long left this sewing room and 
		the two cats smile.  Handle with care.  

When I turned 
	I laughed at the scented beach 
		glass, warm and reeking.  Fluffer-nutter 
sandwiches like candy.  Andy must want 
	to eat it, knows all about this, but he’s married now.  
		Even the dolls have a 
safety latch.  
		She does love me.  Leg up 
	in a provocative pose.  Needles, many pictures, 
		scissors and their cuts.  Hallmark cards.  Guilt. 
The blade is always covered for safety.  

	It tasted awful, not privy to my mouth.  
		The two cats smiled, and it tasted worse 
than a handkerchief, embroidered with soap. Put one star 
	in my bedroom mouth. 

		Cards line the bowl, and 
just like last time, there are piles of Indiana.  
	What does Nap-town mean, or even a provocative 
		pose?  Andy must want to eat it.  
The smell of man to handle.  Only one 
	of the dolls is married 
		now.  There are always her magazines, piles 
			of them, well read, investigated, in a special 
order I am not privy to.  Clipped.  Needles, too.  The year 
	or the year in pictures, but definitely many uses for 
		Easter baskets.  Corn is free with purchase here 
in Indiana.  
	Andy’s stars shine down on me.  A
		provocative pose.  But he’s 
			married now and his scent is gone.  
Eat the beach glass, it looks like candy.  
The server is fluffer-nutter like candy sandwiches. 
The ceiling posed upon the window sill 
	invisible, the hope ropes around 
		the doll's ankles, I miss you.

	My function must be subverted 
for the sake of stars.
	Guilt ropes me down.

Floydd Elliot is a dad, husband, poet, writer, teacher. A recent graduate from NMSU’s Creative Writing Program. Ex-hockey player. Collector of useless things, such as vinyl records, vintage encyclopedias, and beer steins. He hails from Portland, Oregon and misses the rain and floating aroma of hops and barley that haunts the pubs there. Publications include DIN, Sin Fronteras/Writers Without Borders, and The Fun Journal.

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