pulled out all the stops.
Suddenly, this one sided fight
has become a coliseum,
(But wait! That's next months exhibit!)
when only you and I remain. And the irony of it all?
I'm not even Christian.
And you're no lion�
'She's not so tough,' I hear you remark,
and I remind myself the stream of urine set to embark
down my leg, hairless still, is not yours,
and somehow my shaky reply, a squeak and a lie,
that, 'No, not so tough,' will surely have to suffice.
Would it be wrong, after all this,
after the brontosaurus, the bat cave, and the mucus,
after the cover charge and stroll to abyss,
to say;
that despite today, I'm tired of finding myself
Seated at the front of the service,
yet front of the line in the wake?
I love you!
It's been too long!
Let us not see each other again for some undetermined while;
some black burden of death hangs about you,
like a tired shoe, hoping to be put out to stud.
Aren't we all? We laugh.
Oh, is that allowed?
And I quiver at the thought of putting my mum
through another tear drowning affair,
another sandwich and snack despair,
When she has just seen Uncle Marty,
and commented on his distinct lack of hair
when I say to you-
'Sweet Jesus girl! Have you seen their security?
An old woman checking tickets with a whistle
swinging loosely around her neck to her knees?'
I walk away.
I know better then to take my chances with the elderly.
Especially volunteers.