Tenderloin Blues

Nighttime city buses,
passengers bathed in
fluorescent gloom
sit silent,
every corner and crack illuminated,
no one casting a shadow--like the undead
prowling an ancient Carpathian castle.
There were two worlds--worlds apart--
the stark,
bright realism
of the interior
and the impressionist outside
where colored lights
bore through the darkness,
smearing and dripping,
splotching and streaming
onto a dynamic canvas of night.
The bus stops
to take on more sad ghosts.

Woodlice

The woodlice leave traces
of their work
around the floor of this
rocking chair.
In this old house,
raw emotions
seem so fragile,
only to be transformed
into the sound of this rocking chair,
measuring the shifting of wood,
burrowed in silence,

older than
any memory
that I will have,
like the dust
that remains.

Virginia Marvene Hixon

Years ago, as I stood in your kitchen
in green neon socks and first bra bravado
I did not care that you were born
in a cabin on top of Lookout Mountain.
Your smell of mothballs and Lady Stetson
lulled me to sleep,
and my droopy eyes were not surprised when
you drove to the store in second gear.
Years later I would learn of the
red hot talent that took you
from Alabama to New York for an exhibit
of your own. Perhaps the slow train ride
back is what makes you question my weight
or my complexion.
Now, looking at your painting of the cabin
on Lookout Mountain, my feet
wider and flatter from the weight of my own train rides, I wonder:
If I look close enough, can I see through
the window into your room?

Tatoo

I could paint a poem
On your back
With a Chinese brush
And India ink.
And then, with a razor
Or pin or sliver of bamboo
And a stolen hotel towel
(to daub the blood
and excess black),
I could make it
Permanent.
I have seen this done
Before on television
And in movies. But
You would never allow
This violence of
Obligation, this enduring itch
Of commitment.
You could never abide
My words on your skin.