Bob Bradshaw


We'd come home
 from an all night party
 six a.m. and the geraniums
 pink-faced and crowding the fire escape
 as if our homecoming were something
 to shoot footage on.
 I'd never known anyone
 who kept fresh oranges and bananas
 lounging in their smudge-free bowls.
 Used to fruit sulking.
 Not that she couldn't be bitchy.
 She played tennis
 in white skirts and a blouse trimmed
 blue like her china.
 You know the type.
 But don't sneer.  There's something
 to be said for an apt. emphasizing stripes:
 love seat, towels, spider plants and even
 bright fish who drift for hours
 interested in the same zebra painting behind their bowl.
 I grew tired of being interesting.
 Carnations in freshly
 pleated petticoats leaned forward from vases,
 polite, alert.
 I found myself wanting to see a mean
 iguana scurrying off into a jungle of hot ferns.
 Maybe I missed my chance.
 Maybe I should have married her.

Location: Redwood City, California

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