Bowling Pins for Ignorant People

I once witnessed some late night goings-on in the kitchen and afterward was inspired to write the tale of all that I saw and heard...

Usually the most open customers
come,
they enter into Timmy’s museum,
greeted by going where he wills them,
through his arch,
over the stones placed by a hand holding wine,
Timmy,
swoon of her hips the late night study,
they switch clothes and I find him
wearing the apron she wore last night,
cooking him her supper to last the late hours,
to bring home an intellectual pig,
educational bacon,
she’s trapped another in the kitchen she cleans
once a filthy hole for soups and flavors,
the things Timmy needs in his innocence,
Timmy,
shall follow,
cleaning for her and hoping for more,
his gaunt features stretched over steel tresses in his cheeks
and sunken eyes, odor, odor, odor,
they smell like knowledge and
are a part of cooking.

The thumb that stretches heavenward fits his hand tonight,
a judge of the distance distant on his twisted arm
searching for that magic angle,
gone crashing pins when I need a drink
in the middle of the night,
soothing my awkward throat and flash -
a parched moment.

They wait outside of the double doors locked,
created,
his museum waits to be built,
Timmy,
scuttles in preparation for that big day
when his loafers and clean white shirt will all be worth it,
virulent malice in the pussy she holds near to his face,
the cat she uses to get closer to him
but never close enough to avoid his ignorance and
her broken heart.

5.08