She told me she was good,
but I didn’t know she would
begin to drain me from the middle
out to both edges.

Pneumatic in her ways,
I have spent my last few days
just lying still upon her bed,
so I won’t suffer.

Don’t let the ruffles and the lace
distract attention from the face and eyes
and thighs and high breasted uncontested will
that sucks my butt down to rabid feasting,
without least a thought of what I brought,
her dinner.

I hope to scrawl upon the wall
if I have any strength at all,
a warning to the next poor fool that
bears his tool to bushy bush and eyebrows flush
with darking hair so fine a web of constants.

Leaving hope I’ll ever learn,
fear rejection
that she’ll spurn my wish to finish me,
complete, defeat, and meet me
at my ending lines
before the curtain ever closes,

I go from owning my own home to
“A Hank of Hair, a Piece of Bone”
condition that he warned us all about,
that we all thought was just a shout of
poet’s nighttime ravings over
lost love.

We felt we were above,
an aged warning
from a man more knowledgeable
than we.

10/28/2006

Posted on 10/28/2006
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers