Violet Bathroom Dictator
He is the violet
Bathroom dictator; king of the plastered
Hairspray combover.
He is fall
October turning chill at 10:09 p.m.; a smoldering
Ruin, abandoned house burnt.
He is tornadic
Aftermath, roiling clouds receding;
Waxing solar eclipse.
He is a prickly
Brown weed foisted into the wind;
Injured porcupine.
He is a stagnant
Tidal pool; A sargassum-clogged beach
After man o’ war arrive.
He is a rusted
’74 green Impala; A worn
Holy-soled shoe.
He is a stillborn
Merengue; A ridgeless guiro
Missing its rhythm stick.
He is a bruised
Rotting Mango – Acrid
Espresso in the Little Havana heat.
“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”
— Anne Sexton
thee istsfor manity reader 