Not Editing

Behind a sign on the door that says "im editing in here. go away" i am actually not editing. i am sitting on the editing room floor, writing this poem.

Small Teeth

There's this place in a city somewhere
The part of the city where
The buildings are tight together
And the washing hangs on lines like street fair banners
From your window to my window on a pulley that if pulled the right way
Brings my clothes to me
And the wrong way sends my clothes to you.

It's spring in this part of the city and
Cherry trees that only wish they were cherry trees
They're not really
They're really just pink
which cherries aren't
The cherry trees drop petals but it's fine
They always have more... always.

And the the petals get everywhere
But mostly they gather
In piles in the corners
That the trash cans make with the walls.

After you buzz up and I buzz you inside.
I grin so widely that
I have to cover my mouth even though
There's no one to see
I'm afraid you'll notice how small my teeth are.

And the minute you open the door you can smell
The sweet and stale smell of emulsion on reversal film
Which i know I've told you before
Reminds me of 'The Day After'
Spent in a basement room, looking at the projection screen
Or at the back of the boy's head.
Wondering if he knew that that had been my first kiss
And wondering what I was supposed to do.

And you hand me my whites
Which had ended up through your window
"Thats really just my excuse
For coming to see you." you say
And I smile and show you all my small teeth