sleepy is my yawning mistress as she stretches herself out across a
feathered mattress-
no lights about,
no hair in knots,
no furrowing brows or
seeds to sprout-
just hushed sheets spread near her feet which she
fusses around with as i trim my beard in a
tea pot steeped up to its knees,
up to my eyes in a victorian disguise made up of
lapels and lockets,
suit coats and whitman poetry tucked beneath my paling tongue as the day
presses itself upon me like a toy gun-
no harm done,
no feelings flustered,
my girls just moved here from the south and i'm
conjuring up ways and means to better adjust her-
the temperature,
the traffic,
we made love her first night here
in a piss-poor lit attic above a pub downtown when no one was around-
since then she's been distant at best,
arms slung either at her waist or near her breast-
someone slipped her the blues in a note they wrote with a feather and ink,
someone missed their cue and kissed her on the throat and not the nose,
i've been tying my shoes for 3 days straight,
just tying and tying hoping i can take a step out of my room,
instead i just crawl back into bed and try to coax her into
loving me again.
Last edited by rushmore at Apr 23, 2011,