Kate Ellenberger, seven dollars and thirty-five cents. Found his fingers dancing on the rim of all our glasses. Kate Ellenberger, in video, projection, movie night, it was May twenty-eighth of two-thousand and twelve, we'd seen Troll 2, we fell in love with you instead of Buddy Wakefield.
Kate Ellenberger, your name is crisp tomato burnt to the saucepan, every wooden nickel I buried trying to fix me. Break into blossom, blackberry blackberry blackberry, whatever you may call it, Kate Ellenberger, we made a film on the island of Stromboli and everyone said it was better than our last. I miss you, now, in the second draft, like the Baltic Sea misses Portugese wood tucked into sailboats aimed at the land of Robin Hood; soundtrack'd to death by Bryan Adams. Twenty-seven cents and a snakeskin wallet, let's ride Harleys coughing bucks up to the great goddess Petrol. Unroll your hair, it's time to watch the Great Big Dance Show. And the baby talk of my neighbor, and the ice storm cracking whips across Whatever, and the movie night, and terrible films. Remember Stromboli? Kate Ellenberger, your name is a Windsor knot all fallen awful. Kate Ellenberger, the half-Windsor and a bucket of change would buy this poem under glass in the afterlife. And whatever we break becomes what's broken. And whatever we leave
out is the open mouth of the lion. So tomorrow,
when the third draft hits the fan mail express
and all the ponys line up in the shape of your dress
and all the letters of the alphabet pair off, possess
the gerund, which is noun and verb. Switch medicine
for thicker stuff. Act tough, the street lights all Edison.
W.F. Roby is a poet and artist living in Texas. His work has appeared in 32 Poems, Tri-Quarterly and storySouth.
