What do you buy for those cypress-still afternoons <br />when her neck chromes with sweat and she nurses <br />a plastic cup of scotch as "I'll Come Running" <br />melts across the honey-thick light of her porch <br />like a tongueful of wet vicodin? Gift certificates? <br />A silver chafing dish inscribed Don't Forget That <br />Squirrel-hearted Boy You Kissed in the Delta? <br />Where can I find 300-count sheets that smell <br />like Club Ebony closing— catfish grease, plywood, <br />spilt 7 & 7? Can they be woven from that gin lint <br />caught on the police station's razor-curl of concertina? <br />Who'll engrave her bare hips in pearl or tell me <br />not to slow down as I pass an amber-haired girl <br />jogging along Indian Bayou and check for a ruby-peck <br />of mole above her lips as she turns and says <br />Stunned lover, who's ever sure what I wanted?<br /><br />James Thomas Miller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-perfect-gift-2/
