Gregory di Prinzio

Napkin Drawing

You draw a house that always looks snowed-in,
But then, the napkin’s white when you begin.
And through the foursquare window I can tell
It’s snowing in the living room as well.

Such pains are taken rendering your shoes,
And yet the door’s too small for us to use,
And that is taking into account you’ve got
Yourself the fine stick figure I have not.

You leave our roof in need of much repair,
Going to greater lengths to shade your hair,
Restate your figure, give me your hand to hold.
One black flower stands out in the cold.

No clouds to complicate the sky, no birds,
Nor trees, no speech balloons crammed full of words.
No smoke, no chimney stack, no wood, you are
Consistent in your providence, so far.

With rapid arcing strokes the backyard fills
To overflow with bald quintuplet hills,
The last you spike with seven hairs of brightness
To introduce the sun in black-edged whiteness,

Behind whose back the universe is missing.
Outdoors and nude, two figures stand there kissing.
And they could pass for us. All this, I guess
— but only with you — might pass for happiness.
 

Salon Treatment

 All in less than an hour:
Me, come in from the rain,
You, just out of the shower.
And so we meet again,

Apart in facing mirrors,
Held speechless by the waiting,
Watching, overhearers
We are fascinating;

You, by your playful mood;
Me, with my neck grown stiff,
My cowlick teased, unglued
At your kiss-me curl’s “what if?”

And hearing you tell the stylist
Just how your hair should hang
— Well, hell, it’s high on my list,
up there with the partial bang.

Him, with the foreign hands,
The blades, the storm in the hat;
I’m sure he understands
If you don’t want to chat.

So flip another page,
Though nothing’s ever read,
It’s plenty all the rage
Is busy about your head

When the bib comes off at last,
And the new you tips the man,
The one who sweeps the past,
Your wild past up in the pan.