Saturday, November 20, 2010

Ms. Bradshaw

Her breasts are in full bloom like sunflowers,

Gazelle-like legs seemingly agitated,

Pumping and throbbing as she

Steps out of her lace panties

And into the stale fifth-floor air,

Her eyes radiate a certain sense of worry,

Of silent panic, of unwritten pain,

And, her pursed and softly bitten lips

Whisper secrets across Willard Avenue:

“She is alone in this crowded world,

Waiting for a hero to rescue her from this prison,

A sensitive boy with hard eyes

And soft cheeks,

A boy she’s dreamt about since she

Was a girl, and whose portrait she

Drew in her copy of Robinson Crusoe in Middle School…”

Her lips tell me many things,

For I see beyond the obvious,

Beyond the wrinkled forehead,

Beyond those thoughts that sit there like glaciers

And slowly carve and sculpt her dreams,

I can see that she is lonely just like me,

And, as I watch from across Willard Avenue,

Huddled under my Captain America blanket,

Peering through a single telescopic lens,

I notice that her solitude condenses and crystallizes

Around the window panes of my still bedroom,

And, I become a prisoner in a palace of ice,

Watching, waiting, admiring

The beautiful Ms. Bradshaw as she

Prepares for her nightly shower,

And, dances before her mirror like a ballerina,

I love you Ms. Bradshaw…

So I devise a scheme, an adventure,

I draw up plans under my Captain America blanket

With my father’s Mag-lite flashlight

Projecting red, white and blue shields on my ceiling,

And, after mother has retired,

And, our apartment airs a sigh of relief

Settling in for the evening,

I creep out the door,

A shadow descending five flights of stairs,

Racing across the puddled-asphalt of Willard Avenue,

And, Stand dressed in black against the porous bricks

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s building,

Grapple and rope in hand,

I chuck up the grapple,

Which bites into the window sill

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s open window,

And, so I ascend like Batman,

One foot before the other,

Until I peek inside her window,

And, see to my fright the biggest secret of them all,

My father waiting in the bathroom

In my mother’s pink robe and the
Plaid slippers she bought him last Christmas,

Sitting on the toilet

Stroking his fully erect penis

Beckoning Ms. Bradshaw

Who moves like a ballerina from the other room,

And, as I fall down five flights

Screaming,

With my arms stretched toward heaven,

And remain paralyzed,

I see Ms. Bradshaw once more

With her hands stretched toward me,

Red locks fluttering in the air,

I smile,

Because though I’m heading toward Hell,

It doesn't matter,

I already know what Heaven’s like.


~Marvin Gonzalez

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