The Sin of Marriage, #47

Come, lie here. I will call you
Mother to my new ideas,
siren on the road chasing
me, waiting to ticket me,
trap, clock, finish line always
too far away. You escape
from me, exit me faster
than air or water. I can
not hold you, not long enough
to honor you. The terrain
is my body lying flat
on the floor, focus within,
counting, watching, afternoon
riding by. I won’t love you
today, and if I don’t, won’t
miss you tomorrow. The wind
is a wild animal
flown in from Europe, native
to Africa. These paintings
haunt my longing. I have bills
that need paying, insurance
companies to call. I have
no time to spend, butterfly
laid out on a slab, waiting
for you. This is the day I
will forget to kiss you, call,
send you flowers, write poems.
Come home to the place you left
me, Mother of my children
of my poems, Ideal
inspiration. The fingers
tingle and roam in passing
fancy. The words they type fly
apart as quick as they come,
cosmos, big bang, mixed marriage.
I’ve lost the thread of meaning.
Long did I long for your love,
unconditional and fresh,
unconditioned, pesticide
free. Those templates, the ones I
supposedly long for, miss,
those early drawings. That boy
had no idea what to hope
for, what words to write. Loving
is not done from underneath
a trellis. It’s done beneath
blankets and sheets, done reaching



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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