The stripes have ridden high
since ’58 and as I slice
through the threads of fabric
scabbed over in usage, I think
about:
heater to feet sleeping;
marathons of Star Trek;
one-two-three past now
apparative figures
in various poses of
resting
eating
crumbling…
to the final break away
swallowed in the pit of
whatever happened
in little bite sized scenes
playing reel to reel as
I pull staples, wrenching
them this way and that —
loosening their embedded state
with increasing vigor and
exasperation as
three states and thirteen moves
click through my thoughts until
laughter overtakes my mouth in
meltdown — dissolves in the
straight, sober grip of
me in the feel
of too many memories
festering in velvet stripes
and gold trim.

I let my head drift down
heavy ringed to rest on the
solid wood left bare,
filet weapons at ease…
mutter an apology for skinning,
a thanks for frame, and
promise it good days coming
and a new skin graft.