Recent Work
Frederick Moore & John Pitarresi
HER LITTLE ROOM
Rain’s falling but at just a trickle,
Hair the color of a blue popsicle,
Her little room is warm and dry.
A pack of smokes and a small Bic lighter,
Her restless mind and an old typewriter
Help to keep that room aglow.
There was a mother, there was a father,
But when they moved one way, she moved another.
With just her mattress on the floor,
She’ll live with less but loves it more.
When a kid, never really lonely,
She had a flying saucer and a big toy pony,
They’re with her even now.
Had no breakfast but feeling stable,
At noon some lima beans, and a baked potato.
That’ll be just enough.
In her phantom glow things come floating
Until she molds her plot into showing
How all she’s seen, the false and true,
Can form a brand new kind of blue truth.
She knows the real truth is always in the gray,
So for the right guy she’ll meet him halfway.
So now they share that empty floor.
They’ll live with less but love it more.
Just like that. Just like that, the sky explodes like a falling ocean.
Just like that. Just like that, the sky explodes.
And after a time she just can’t help herself,
And so she starts to sing into the night.
“This little room so safe and dry
I’ve never had a high so fine.
This stormy night’s all yours and mine.
Still, be still my sugar high.”
Here the wet sidewalks always smell the same,
Like piss and flowers wrapped in rain.
They’ll live with less but love it more.
They’ll love it more.