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Postmodern Village
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coming up clean
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

For "Big Pants" and the man who's marrying her

there's something about that man
you just wanna shellac, scrub down
and polish until his teeth gleam whiter
than fresh copier paper

he smells too newly-minted, having
just formed himself from the thousand
random molecules you shuffle off
when you talk about that relationship
with your father, the boyfriend
you couldn't seem to shed, the childhood
pet that died--and you buried it
wrapped in a fluffy red bath towel
like a nightengale killed by cuckolding--
but all that was early in your literary career

it seems he has all the depth
of a third-grade lunchbox: Knight Rider,
The Fall Guy, The Muppets, Charlie's Angels

but your words on his skin eat through,
drill in and hang on like parasites

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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