sincerely, amuse me please

by Irene

I had moved straight
as an arrow, from the library
to another room, pencil in hand,
all of us young,
and in need of beer,
wearing pumps and pencil skirts
carrying an armful of manuscripts.

With no sudden foreboding
that one day we’ll only see
like observers,
bringing our own selves to bear
on a woman’s back, bending
over, to pick up something
we can’t quite see,
like a mystery.

That is what I ask of you,
sincerely, amuse me please,
make me an apprentice
opening the flowers in my scrawny
mouth, so I could not feign
ignorance, rivulets of experience
inked like tattoos
between these pages,
so let us go now,
drinking coke by a gas station,
poring over a brilliant book.

I don’t want the codes to end,
fair out of ideas we’re not–
as long as there’re plumes,
we’ll read in a chintz love seat,
watch frailty dancing
in eternal dust motes–
and we won’t starve
on a fallow carpet, attics of art
will feed us all.