Modeled after “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens
The sweet smell of baby powder
In the big, blue room
Forms white clouds around the tiny, pink body
Wrapped in the tiny blue, white, and pink blanket.
A fresh milk moustache
Glazed over an upper lip.
Of a smile
With cookie crumbs wedged between gaps of missing baby teeth.
Rows of sun kissed bodies
Lying and turning like rotisserie.
Sprinkled with sand,
And cooked until golden brown.
Warm summer air whistling through my toes
As interstate zooms by.
Wind tunnels through the rolled-down windows
And my hair whips against my face.
Blurry bodies slide around the snow-frosted streets
Of the concrete jungle;
Marbles rolling around a dish,
Touching only on accident.
His forehead wrinkles at the strain of his thoughts.
His lips rest on a white, clenched fist
As he tries to force out the next, great American novel.
He mainly wears stress on his shoulders and chin
Little red bumps dotted around his tense body.
Goosebumps spread from where cold hits skin for the first time.
She spasms with shivers from a brisk, morning shower.
Pairs of bare feet toy with one another.
Safe to express intimacy
From under the maroon sheets molded around the two lovers.
Vinegar hinted sweat;
The smell of hard work.
The clanking of weights
And grunts of men
With more muscles than hairs.
They surf down the mountain
Leaving a labyrinth of trails in the powder.
Their big, black helmets;
Dots on a Dalmatian.
He slouches, propped against a wall
Covered with pictures of groups of friends.
Eyes closed shut in the already dimly lit, black room.
The air is hazed with the smell of stale peanuts.
A liver-spotted hand
Grips the aluminum cane tighter than the skin grips what lies beneath it.