Salsa Jar Ann Arbor – Spring, 2008
(stolen from B. Luhrmann)
I saw a man with a big dent
in the side of his forehead,
angled just above the temple.
He sat quietly, drinking
a green and thick concoction
from a “Tostito’s” brand salsa jar.
He had long, greasy hair and
a receding hairline, bending around
into a widow’s peak,
and it surrounded the dent in his head
like dark, tropical arms of sand
orbiting a lagoon,
adding contrast to its lighted ridge
and framing its shadowed side.
He read poems about spectacular deaths
and graveyards and icky, morbid things;
drinking his thick pond topping,
from that washed out
salsa jar.
And it brought to mind the Sea of Tranquility,
staring at that dent and it’s shadowy ridge.
And I searched through his hair
for palm trees and coconuts and monkeys.
Wily monkeys bouncing in space suits
on the surface of the jar,
dying spectacularly in the
shadow of a salsa-tar muck pit,
green ooze congealing on
the greasy peak
of Widow’s Moon,
I sat alone, gravely,
watching a man
drinking from
his jar.
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Sandy
Welcome to Authors' Den!
Connie
p.s. Just between you, me, and the four walls, I don't think you'll like my writing. ;~)
Be always safe,
Karen