A final meal 
of Yorkshire Pudding and  beef.
Then, as a thief I'd steal the night.
We circled with the stealth of strays,
listening to Beethoven.
But I'd a crescendo of heart 
as you placed your hand on mine.
Such gentleness was imbalanced,
since I've known the sharpness 
of your tongue.
I maintained composure, 
but such cynosure 
and I'm Promethean, unbound.
'Once more!  For old time's sake.'
And I break all the promises I'd made.
As you slept, I closed the door.
And the feeling 
escaping the room,
created a vacuum 
I could never replace.
 

A Final Gasp

Leave me again, 
and it will be the last.
I've surpassed 
this puppy dog devotion.
Your crossing of the ocean 
is wearing thin.
I can't begin to tell you
how my heart's been torn,
   limb from limb.
The vena cava is giving in
and the right ventricle 
knows not what the left is doing.
A mitral valve prolapse would be simple,
   if I had a heart.
But you took that too.
And if you leave again
it will surely be 
the last of you.
 

Not Forthcoming

I say to myself, 
   'Never again!'
No more jumping through hoops
or running when he calls.
Yet when his Bentley pulls in
and the driver lets him out,
   my heart pounds. 
I see his bag of tricks,
filled with lotions, 
   potions
and a riding crop or two.
He'll neatly arrange the night stand.
Methodically undressing
and expecting the same of me.
We're tightly scripted and haven't much time
and so I perform as a circus act.
But such spontaneity 
doesn't easily
   come 
to me. 
 

Who Is Really Trapped?

I still have the GE fan from my job.
You know,
the nine to five that wouldn't quit
until the day I died.
Well the company went under,
but the fan still works.
At least one of us is functional,
circulating wind and broadly oscillating.
Rotating 
at variable speeds,
I watch the plastic blades
encased in a metal cage.
Wondering,
who is really trapped?
 

Awaiting Orders

A floundering coyote 
mottled and manged,
blends with trees and crumbling stone walls.
Its body with little fur remaining; 
as a shell awaiting its coxswain.
Articulated ribs portray shortness of breath.
Flicking a piebald ear 
the coyote stands, 
attent,
as though awaiting orders 
from some unseen helmsman. 
 

Is This A Bad Connection?

Needles of snow pierce the glass.
I watch the rearview,
as whiteness covers my past.
I can’t go back to a place,
too small and too hot.
His only happiness, 
because I’m there; 
but not in spirit.
And each time he calls he claims
I sound more distant.
Finally asking; 
is this is a bad connection?
 

Is He Contagious?

He marches to the beat of a different drummer,
as his cousin Janie wonders;
what are shoes?
They’ve institutionized her,
and it’s only a matter of time
before they pick him up.
Heating his house with a GE toaster,
he counts the number of meteors in the Pleiades. 
At least shooting stars commune,
as no one else wants to be near
for fear they’ll catch autism
and suffer 
a similar fate.
 

Addend or Addenum

His bedroom was leaden-grey, 
with curtains drawn tight.
He needed someone for the night to make a pair.
But I wasn't always the right one.
I knew by perfume scenting the sheets,
or make-up left on a table.
Yet, I wasn't able to leave 
and make a fresh start. 
Coming from work, he'd offer a drink,
then the rest would fall into place. 
Along with myself trying to replace
that other half.
I didn't realize until too late,
two halves don't always meet 
to form a whole.
 

Foreplay

Tell me why 
I 
no longer listen
when you speak of political things.
Now 
it's fluff and all the sweet stuff
you pull out of your belly-button.
Tell me why
I 
no longer come,
when we toss and turn
while making love.
Now, 
I suppose 
you're at a loss; 
yet the cost
is all the other sweet stuff.
 

It's Twins!

It was a cruel hoax,
showing pictures
of someone else's child;
as I awaited a sonogram
for the tumor I nurtured inside.
Tried and true,
now 
it had a twin.
But I don't think 
it will be an x-ray
they'll put on the wall.
It just goes to show 
who rates 
and who loses.