Under the Lampshades

Under the Lampshades You are hurriedly racing your crazy Cadillac, looking to squeeze in more time at the yoga salon, and have a relaxing conversation under a set of palm trees out back, with sandwiches of desire mixed with sardines and mustard; this person you are racing to is the one who knows the right buttons to push. Is it time for another epoch of stranded conveniences, required by society as solemnly as a funeral with no body? We know there is a hidden pain not felt, not until a rain of shredding years find their progressions captured, inside old rooms down hallways of musty time, with apparitions of giggling girls walking back and forth, looking for aroused embraces in the burning night, Come with me now, is there no time for lazy hours under lampshades, after we gather up red nectarines at the Uptown faire? We can gaze at the old faces and wonder if they knew anything. But inside this 1956 Cadillac we all knew where the flashlights were hidden, And we all knew where the silver keys to the pink hearse were located. Shh, don’t make a sound! Try not to make a clamor within these green tiles. There are witch hazel bottles half full in the medicine cabinets, and There are asbestos catchings in the dry rot, and ancient cobwebs made of beard, Collapsing here with us in this dead basement of cement and lost whispers. Shhh, she is tiptoeing down the creaky steps now wearing brown skin; My breath is taken away as with all spirits ascending upward face-first.