Ray Succre
Over Green Light
Green light is fishing this gutty beldam alive,
little power from the seat of my gerontoxicosis—
I can’t, however, see my way to Dixieland,
fairy tale, or quilting. Aghast— green light!
Jitters are half my day, not rustiness,
and I want it hot in a cup.
How frank are my legs and steps,
hingey, fraught as ballast bags dripping sand,
while the balloon takes its lady to the blazes,
upward, yes me, and not you;
my balloon gasconades, big.
And baby? Sweetie? You should know
that pirates felt me up crusades ago,
and there is no supple smasher here, sewing
over green tea and tunafish, my green light,
and a reheated tagliatelle salad plate.
Listen, you’re still in venter, and crushing
is for kids. I like the green light, the little
plates, Presley, and yes, all the sugar-talk,
kind and still fooling as a vapor,
but you’re a green I don’t use much,
and you should know to go back
into the lips of girlfriends and girls.
