in front of a window with squirrel

a still life sits
in front of a window
opening onto a landscape
where a selfish heart lipstick red with sacrificial eyes
beats on the cheap carpet
hauled home from the local Kmart
by a working salesman in drag.
my only saving grace
except for a single sense of rhythm
is my counterpoint to the kitchen counter
squarely planted upstairs
on the long and narrow desk
under an overhead light
where the intricacies of the pinkest music
keep Big Blue dialing for home.
if i wasn't so shy and short on charm
this austere room with the ballroom door,
a pioneer's face painted over the little knob
with his dim mistress by his side,
would be a popular refuge.
i was never destined to be much of a writer,
but valiantly studied every move by those i hold in high esteem,
which includes the working salesman in drag.
and the confident grey squirrel i watch from my window
has established himself into a budding thief
rapidly and effectively
he can transform himself into a bird and fly away.
he has never asked for a slide-rule,
and refuses to teach me any of his literary tricks.
but still i write,
sitting in front of a window
watching the squirrel steal time,
plus a few sunflower seeds for his journey.