Jeannie

 

Jeannie was  a  ballerina  on  Saturdays
she sat on the couch under a cat-hair
blanket and dusted the coffee table with
her long cracked feet Jeannie had no
curtains She hung crystals in the window
from fishing line to catch rainbows in the
living room I saw her feed nine people
with a box of spaghetti I saw her lay on
terrazzo in sticky piss with a black and
white spotted bag of dog bones Jeannie
drank a bottle of Jacob’s Creek Cabernet
Sauvignon every night after work She did
pirouettes on the porch in late afternoon
Her house smelled like litter and black
hoodies in winter and glass bowl of
patchouli potpourri from the eighties
Jeannie slept in the garage so we could
have the bedrooms She pumped air-
conditioning in with a box fan in the
doorway She told me her mother looked
like a monkey and time traveled before
she died She said never ever look at your
ass in the mirror after forty She said it’s
better to be alone than wish you were

Jeannie kept her pencils in a carrot
muffin on top of her head A week before
she died Jeannie fell in love with a man
named Bill I heard them whispering on
the  porch  like  kids  sneaking  cigarettes