this girl. Name her Janie Huzzie.
stalks pounding mad away from group games
complaining awkwardly loud about
her solely lonely bed always upstairs.
everybody looks. Janie Huzzie’s dressed in white.
naturally the crowd glowers i pipe up
winking in every direction i slither away
mostly virtuously.
finding her. Janie Huzzie’s dancing without a sound.
wherever the music’s coming from
i dance a gay rubbery legged dance around
her thick stiff steps.
finally noticeable. Janie Huzzie opens her eyes.
finding herself and myself together transported
by dancing no doubt upstairs her room’s filled
with one black chair (no one knows why it’s there).
diplomatic and gradually. Janie Huzzie thinks she i love her.
first untouchingly then much touching day
wears into night at night i hold her
closely, soully upon her bed.
downstairs. (Janie and i hold each other sleepily.)
the crowd is waking up aiming their eyes
upstairs toward the sky
yelling jealousies.
some stories end sad or bad. Janie Huzzie’s does.
daylight, crowds demanding, The Queen bursts in
sitting in the only chair smiles says
She loves me, wants me, needs me . . . takes me, too.
Copyright 1983 & 2007 by Robert Ronnow.