They hide
in the hallways
of my mind.
Something faint
that speaks volumes
like unread chapters screaming in the dark
on the copyrights desk.
Fogged bifocals
from missions in the rain
where the sound of
something ancient
left a smear upon the pane.
Celtic thigh blemishes
mean more in the morning
and no one can read your T-shirt after dark.
It was a toss up of lipstick and curling iron courage
that led you to 85th and Lexington tonight.
My experimental meat helmet proto-type
is in full production thanks to a Maggie McMallo...something or other.
In the night
I sit up straight and shake hands
with the old ghost
at the foot of my bed.
Her white eyes peircing my soul,
I can't roll over after that.
...this is stout, johnny. sounds droll but there is a pome IN every line; a wonderous trick to have pulled-off annnnnnd there is a wisdom to it that is inescapable. put this one on top of your pile, buddy!
