Menagerie

Fingers open, reaching
toward diamond figures,
animals arranged just so
on the oaken bookshelf
rag-polished every day
(at three:thirty-five p.m.;
Amanda sees to that.).

Maybe far away,
or maybe real near by,
he may be pouring her coffee;
she may be straight'ning his tie.

I like the way the light
catches the glass of my statues
and shines and sparkles through them.

I don't want realism. I want magic!
Yes, yes, magic.
I try
to give that
to people.

"Oh, Laura, haven't you ever liked some boy?"

Face flushes
as crimson hue jumps instantly to cheek.
Eyes flit, unable to decide where to go.
And heart, heart has long ago given up
beating in time with the tickings of the clock.

Lashes brush.
Dark, thick, heavy lashes
framing eyes
that see a lot
and say very little.

I guess
I might have
liked one,
once.