There is nothing like the smell
of old onions and bleach
when it's pressed
against cheekbones
the smell, the coolness
of a late night cafe
where nobody cares
cause I've already paid
for that coffee, always
sitting too far away
from my hands
tucked like kittens
in strict denim clefts
of my jeans
because I was told
they talk too much.
So I sit on them, and rest
my head on a counter
and yes,
this is truly
my personal heaven.
~
In a list
Critiques not only welcomed, but encouraged.
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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I'm such a sucker for a sticky opening line.
Who could put this down?
The line breaks and short stanzas make reading this poem feel like I'm listening to you breathe.
I expected breathing in the last stanza, to be lead out of the poem as you exhale what you inhaled in the first stanza.
But I love this.
Tom
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you know it's funny you should say that, the listening to me breathe. Even when I write letters, and such...
I've been told that. It's how I speak, right or wrong
(okay... maybe being a smoker doesn't help); and I did exhale
at my friend. winks.
Thanks Tom, I mean that.
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coolness, but comfort
a moment of respite
a perfect image
a very, very good poem
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I liked this. My hands talk too much to.
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"strict denim clefts"!!!
The line breaks, the subject, the imagery
exellent!
"tucked like kittens"
Awesome you are!
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ps ~ I've added this to my list of poems by other poets which I recommend to people who visit my space. Hope it will bring you more views over time
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I had not long logged out of AP when I received a notice by email that this had been posted by you!!! Read it while on Hotmail but liked it so much I had to log back in to comment!
I love the obscure fragrances you work with - yes, I know what you mean; newly cut onions and the smell of a clean kitchen surface ... definitely not a combination that could be forgotten; reminiscent of school canteens and greasy-spoon cafes (where so many a poet can be found with their faces submerged in a cuppa) !!!
The detail and drama you gave to your self-consciousness, and of hushing your hands by physical restraint really gave life to the poem.
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You must have italian blood if your hands talk too much lol
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May I join you, Kathleen? Need a refill? This is a grand penning, Scribe. I once went to an insurance auction held in Las Vegas. Don made me sit on my hands. Probably a good thing, too. 
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I changed it up a bit, wasn't quite right, but I think it's better now...
I am a hand talker, they have video of me at work giving perps shit, my hands waving, fingers pointing... they all come back to apoligize to me. lol. I make them feel bad enough to do that. That, in itself is kinda cool.
A good thing? sometimes, maybe. winks -
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Yes. I especially like "clefts" instead of "folds" better, too. Nice tweakin', Sweets. 
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no shite eh? they're not folding over yet... lol
hehehe.
Thanks hon!
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