The Obsequious Pen: A. Dawn

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Photo by jesse williams on Unsplash

Poetry by A. Dawn is featured for this week’s “The Obsequious Pen.” A. Dawn has been writing poetry since she was eleven-years-old, typing on her teal blue plastic typewriter.  She is inspired by the seemingly mundane in life. Consequently, she feels poetry is a vehicle for condensing all of the random information in her brain into something solid, humorous, and sometimes beautiful.

Recliner

I’m a poet of words

Lacking sympathy

For the empathy

Making face for lemon twist

Gin martinis without

The olive skins

He abandoned his Italian roots

For La Dolce Vita.

I’m a broad,

But not a lady,

I’m too blunt for

Avanti cigars cut clogged

Fumes spit

Hint of lipstick

Pressed idle on

Repeat play

Jukebox 45s,

I’ve heard their wayward

Beach Boy

Stories

1,000 times before and

They are always wrong.

 

I’m an artist of vision

Cheap huffing glue wisdom,

Abstract concepts

Clear through packaging tape

And happy trees

Are father’s legacy

Long lived

Dean Martin’s dreams

I’ve never full

Filled flask

Coal speaking dialects,

Broken baseball player

I’ve never understood

Why Chick’s Diner coffee

Without sugar

Is not coffee at all?

Without all of that Dollar store

Make up

I am nothing, but

Cleaning house.

Solitaire is my favorite past time.

Please, hand me the remote.

And stop feeling sorry for yourself.

 

What I’ll do for an Upright Bassist

He drank antioxidant grape juice

From a Dollar Tree wine glass

Through his dilapidated slicked back Halloween mask

To rejuvenate his latex broken face

Under the charming candle light

And bright fine wiring bulb obstruction,

In a black suit,

He almost looked human.

 

“Here’s to another year of marriage.

Happy Anniversary, darling!”

We clang our glasses

As I sniffled in apathetic reciprocity.

I recited my lines a few times and

Never sounded sincere

In my role as a sarcastic wife,

Ex-girlfriend to his best friend,

Seven ghosts past.

 

“Why, don’t you look boooo-tiful tonight?”

He slung his broad shoulders in a V

And grazed his bony fingertips together,

One imaginary fret at a time.

He changed the script without saving face,

I sighed and scowled his fake name,

Then tried to gain retribution

Repeatedly from the opposing side

Of an unforgiving iPhone screen.

Across the room,

Lonely pale male,

Working class denim blue cuffs

Scraped against an empty Wal Mart white

Picturesque plate with a fork

And pretended to choke

On an upscale TV dinner.

A glass of water

Did nothing to swallow his shame.

 

My sudden husband rolled

In a cat hair deflated office chair,

Made more corny quips,

Indifferent to suffering

As I yelled “It’s over!”

And punched the air

In front of the gasping.

 

Then we threw semi-thawed hot dogs

At my now beau’s face.

 

In the end,

We started from the beginning,

And walked arm and arm,

Celebrated our years together

As friends

Overshadowed

By unforgiving lovers.

 

Want to submit your work? Contact A. Dawn at adawnpica.ttw@gmail.com or fill out the form below. 

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