RAGWEED PANTOUM

I sat on the bookcase and gave tea to the women who interrupted the poem.
I had to ask a curly-haired girl to brace the piano stool, so I could jump down.
She turned into my son as he was twenty-eight years ago;
when he went to open my parents’ bedroom door, I followed.

I had to ask a curly-haired girl to brace the piano stool, so I could jump down.
Jacques Cousteau was standing there next to me, his elbows resting  on the rail.
When he went to open my parents’ bedroom door, I followed;
there was a strange woman in their bed, pale, dressed in Victorian blue

Jacques Cousteau was standing there next to me, his elbows resting  on the rail.
He said he’d throw cold water on me when it was time for me to go.
There was a strange woman in the bed, pale, dressed in Victorian blue;
it took a hell of a time to wake her.  He told me I could sleep here, she whispered,

he said he’d throw cold water on me when it was time for me to go.
Cautiously I climbed down to the gravel entry of the inevitable gift shop.
It took a hell of a time.  He told me I could sleep here.
Then there were stairs–the creepy kind, with no railings or edges.

Cautiously I climbed down to the gravel entry of the inevitable gift shop.
I took a bottle and a brush from the dresser, began to paint my son’s little face.
Then there were stairs–the creepy kind, with no railings or edges.
I leaned on the fence, looked up at the grassy ski lift where the stairs had been;

I took a bottle and a brush from the dresser, began to paint my son’s little face,
my son as he was twenty-eight years ago.
I leaned on the fence, looked up at the grassy ski lift where the stairs had been,
then sat on the bookcase and gave tea to the women who interrupted this poem.

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