Sarah Galvin

Three Poems

I Live in an Actual Flophouse

built for destitute men in the 1920’s,
although it’s 2015 and I’m
made entirely of expensive marble,
especially my enormous breasts.
This may explain why,
as my first romantic gesture to you,
I played a song called “Party Time”
about an orgy of grandparents
at a family reunion.
It isn’t true that stone hearts
are always cold, as anyone
who has smelled rain
on summer freeways knows.
My weird mineral heart, sincerely
in love, longed to
present you with a sincere
representation of that love’s reality.

I Heard She Was Fired from Catholic Arby's

But I looked all over that place and
couldn’t find Arby anywhere. Maybe this
is why I feel what I’ve heard is called “malaise.”

I climbed every historic building in town
and nothing was on top of them.
Now most of them have been demolished
to make way for buildings that lack
even the possibility of something on top of them.

That lack is worse than disappointment
It’s depleting my vitamin D.

To someone with a vitamin deficiency,
human genitalia is invisible.
Nothing is more erotic
than confirming by touch the existence
of something you can’t see
except when it’s just what you expect.

On My 60th Birthday I Will Dig Up a Dead Body

I know I will be 30 in two months
because the Parks Concierge is jaywalking.

When I was 10, he was just a guy
in a green vest crossing the street fast.

I imagine him in 30 years as a
a disco ball of shimmering descriptors.

The world emerges from time
like a teenager coming out
of a blackout
to find themselves naked,
alternately barfing
and singing
in their own back yard.

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