as an alibi with eyes
spoken like a Spartan
layers the wood and glass
thick with dust
hence my apprehension
on which poisons to pick.
I gave her all I had
left over from the last.
I tried to sate her thirst
like Jim fucking Jones.
I cupped that little lapdog's head
its prancing not knowing goodbye.
Lips wet with gin
drop the night's last smoke
on thighs that part for carpet
and a burn that's accidental.
I was made in May
yet December's always promised.
No comments:
Post a Comment