Chicano Poet

Monday, April 24, 2006

Elevator Music

Robinson perfected his look
in the elevator to the 48th floor,
a leaf twisted on a tree down below

passing on its knowledge of what wind will wish.
The traffic blared like a radio
from the antennae of Adam.

Eve naked in the garden
of Sears and Roebuck,
her generation cupped by God’s hands,

his knuckles hid the bones
procured from a nearby star
that twinkled in the dirt of the park.

When Robinson inquired of the receptionist,
her long dress was excited by her legs
undulating in an orgasm of cloth.

None of this entered Robinson’s mind,
concerned as he was
with this and that word.


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