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Cameo Roles
Poems by Jo Barbara Taylor
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Excerpts
Crime Scene
I awoke to the arctic sizzle of the air conditioner
in a small motel room on a hot Memphis-July night.
The neon “BlueFly Motel” bleached our room
through loose-weave curtains, the “Y” blinked
off-on-off every fifteen seconds, “Vacancy”
glowed hot pink.
Three crisp thwacks on the door, a sharp voice
startled me. Police. Open up. We know you’re
in there, Bobby Max, we know you’ve
got her in there with ya. We don’t want
no one to git hurt. Bobby Max lay on top
of the sheet beside me in Hanes briefs,
his whole-self blue in the BlueFly light.
Am I a hostage or somethin’? I thought.
No tethers. Have I been raped or kidnapped?
I remembered sex on a sleeping bag between
a silver-studded black saddle and a set of Ping
golf clubs in the back of Bobby’s Silverado.
Sure I had consented, I wondered what
Bobby Max was up to before we climbed
into the back of the pick-up.
I stole out of bed, put on my blue Graceland tee shirt
and pink Joe Boxers, tiptoed across the floor, unhooked
the chain, let it scrape the casing, opened the door,
stood back to let the S.W.A.T. team subdue
ole Bobby Max, passed out from too much Pepe Lopez.
The cops put Bobby’s pants on, got him vertical,
cuffed his hands, ushered him out.
Officer S. Keploe picked up the keys to the truck,
I followed him out. The cigarettes on the seat
are mine, I said, and thinking fast, added,
so are the saddle and golf clubs in the back.
He handed me the cigarettes, plopped the saddle
and golf clubs on the concrete in front of the motel.
I smiled. He got in the truck and drove away,
taking all evidence of the crime.
Wrong
She wakes under a loose quilt
that does not feel familiar.
Lemon oil and bleach announce
impersonal asepsis.
Unrecognized sounds permeate
her stuporthe ka-chuck
of an icemaker, the plink-plink
of a cold water faucet.
Suzanne opens her eyes to eggplant
walls instead of the comfort
of seafoam green that she hopes for.
She looks at the quilt,
a Dutchman’s Puzzle nine patch
in scarlet and white, black
flying geese migrating the perimeter.
It is too thin to provide warmth,
too stiff to nestle around her.
The door opens to reveal
coffee in a yellow cup,
orange juice in an amber glass.
He says, Morning.
Suzanne retreats under the loose quilt.
God Wrote:
Dear Hanna Grace,
My name is antiquated,
grizzled, a relic.
I want a new “handle.”
Please suggest possibilities.
I replied:
raindrop
grain of sand
laughter
lilac
Indiana
bonbon
snowflake
woolen socks
fireplace
Claire de Lune
cameo
blue silk
sunset
poetry
Purchase Cameo Roles here.
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