But She Is Brunette. Poem by Alistair Plint

As her leg
gathered
over
the
Baby Grand

Wrapped in nylon
with
that glistening
Kitten-Heel
facing
my
esophagus

Stunned silence
cleared
the mind

I'd have imagined
a cigarette
a whiskey
glass

Hell -
I'd have
expected
suspenders
crass vocab
and
a gymnastic tongue


Perhaps
that
vinyl-chafe
micro-crackling
in the audio
was
just
mental

Maybe not.

Perhaps
I was the
star
of her
Cinema-Nouveau

Shot on
8 millimeter
negative

Scissor cut
edits
clear-taped
together

Oh, however
the story
goes;
that's
when she
became
my

Ginger Rogers.


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