by Eric W. Wetzell
(06/06/07)
A few yellow leaves still
Move in the gray wind outside
And pickled onions sit
Like two pale tits
Lifting and settling in
The cool gin Gibson
Billie Holiday is playing
And I remember how once I ran
My fingers down your spine
On a gray day that wanted rain--
Remember how every bone of you
Was a gear
In your perfect clockwork--
How finding that rough dial to wind
Would set your hands trembling
Giving pulse and purpose
And forward motion to us both
That was a long time ago
I wanted to engrave my name
On your hidden places
And keep your filigreed,
Victorian beauty on a chain--
Slip you within
The thin material of a front pocket
Close to my cock--
Present you
When I wanted to seem pretentious
Or, less often,
Prompt
A possession, yes, but prized
Wouldn't that have been
Lovely?
Today all I have are pickled tits
In the bottom of a glass
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux