Draped over a glass, liberated
from the Brass Rail Lounge,
a used rubber. And motel bedsheets
that smell and stick together.
We are like Blackbirds
singing in the dead of night.
And you are like Mother Mary
speaking no words of wisdom.
Goodbye and farewell, Carmelita!
They call you a Hatchback Lolita.
A Paperback Reader, not Writer
of trashy Romance Novels.
Come back when you grow up, girl!
But understand this: The gang
won't be here, waiting for you.
They've had enough.
They've had theirs. I've had mine.
And you? You've been had!
Bad players. The lot of us.
86'ed from the Brass Rail Lounge.
He thinks he may be ill. What pill
will cure the pounding ache
of this day's misadventures?
Dentures lying on the sink stink
from last night's misadventures.
They belong to her, not him.
His teeth are all his own, hers are false.
He never really liked a girl
whose teeth were not her own.
The phone is off the hook.
The book of poetry he read to her
is lying somewhere on the floor.
John Donne merits something more
than threadbare carpets. Maybe he
will set John straight upon the shelf.
Selfish of him not to make any coffee
for the girl, but early in the day,
he stays out of everybody's way.
Sunday afternoons are nice. But so are
doting aunts, stay pressed pants,
and the price of Campbell's soup.
Soon the group will meet again
but he won't go. The grocer
wants to know when he will pay his bill.
When will he pay his bill? What pill
will cure the pounding ache
of next day's misadventures?
My Mother is the Sun.
The Winds and the Waters
are my Brothers and Sisters.
The Earth is my House
but my Home are the Stars.
I am my own Space Ship.
The Moon lights the way.
( time to go gently into that good night... no longer raging against the dying of the light )