Politics of Grooming Slaughter Beach, Dog

I know the you when you are getting dressed
Is not the you I've really come to know
She speaks in shorter phrases, and she often can't remember
Which impulsive words were emitted as response
But it's not a selfish, shorter-spanned attention
Rather, preference for the politics of grooming
Hell, I'd paint my face and fingers and my toes and lips and eyelids
If it meant tonight, I didn't have to think about the future
Just to fixate my attention on a wooden powder pencil
Not a single thought devoted to whatever's on outside the house
Or even past the door of your mother's bathroom, where we're sitting
And surviving on the steadiness of passing time
So when the lines are drawn and all the powders matted
You'll be standing there and blinking at your image
And you'll wish that it would turn around and do what it's supposed to
But reflections do not turn themselves away

When you were younger and your mother started drinking
She would tuck you in and close your bedroom door
Then, one night, you sprung awake inside a turning, twisted dream
And you ran downstairs to find her laying out across the floor
She did not hear you softly crying near
Or feel your mouth all hot against her ear
So you kissed her like she taught you, and for the first time on a head
You got up and tucked your own self into bed