SLEEPING IN ANDY’S BED
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.