I'm not much for myself as a poet today. Feeling even more mediocre than usual. And this poem doesn't disprove that, certainly. But I feel the need to write, even if it is shit, and even if I'm still fixated on ex-wife #2 and her online photo and my failures as a husband. But I have a poetry blog, and what the hell am I supposed to do with it? So, I post my crappy poem.
Forgive me. I'm staring at your
photograph, the coarse, fluid lines of auburn
or ruby, the seas turned more
coffee than blood and breaking on the killing
shore. I have had my lips on
that ear. She hides her age and imperfections,
the weight of her heart, a base
called drained, and sunless. My lips have touched
that cold cheek. Windows to
windows, we look upon and see nearly reflected,
more deflected, eyes half opened
and askance, never the whole story. You should
know. The eyes have told me what
I never wanted to know. The lips, the thin lines,
as between love and apathy, stopped
to reset the clocks. Before she left.
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