the foreigner and the witch

When i worked in the cafe i often spent my entire shift writing what was going on around me down. i have a lot of poems about the random creeps that came in. in this case, i started writing about a very close friend of mine (loooooove you to death, g!) and as i was in thought of her, one of the regulars came in and obviously sent my mind spinning. hahah, this blog stuff is a lot of fun...

The most beautiful girl I know

says to me: I like your touch,

I like that you can touch that

you don’t stiffen at contact that

I know you mean it when you give me

your embrace.

The most beautiful girl I know

said that to me.

I was taken back and inward;

I touched her in gentle thanks

This girl likes

as an addiction

to touch.

This girl caresses openly

in conversation

even to the acquaintance, showing always

a welcoming nature with

the added tangible of touch

and that in my evolution of comfort

with touch I have mostly learned from her

and that she is credible for it all

the most beautiful girl I know and----

a psycho lunatic comes into the café.

she overtakes my gorgeous thought and asks

how much I could sell her

and individual

piece

of lettuce for.

I sigh in helpless irritation.

This most asinine interruption: the same

psycho-bitch who asked once if she

could bring home salt

wrapped in a napkin

from the shaker on her table; the same

bitch bloody idiot

who once came in once with “no money”

and said it would “please her”

to buy a bagel for dinner

with the money

in my tipcup.

The most beautiful girl in the world

and this is my note of thanks

With decrepit intrusion of an

awkward misfortunate creature

I move back to the good thought:

I love your touch and love even more

that you love mine.