all across the land, sleeping in on a Saturday morning,
satin slides, and gingham hides,
as America has a good morning squeeze,
and warm hands find willing harbors,
and hot breath whispers over covers,
star-crossed, most, yes, but mostly lovers;
while stuck on the bottom of the national shoe,
I sit here pining and starving anew,
seething so strong that the bitter is sweet,
ready to leave when I can't find my feet;
not a thing to recommend it, even what I once loved,
this life is a bore, it's an uphill trudge;
it's one reason why wisdom is saved for the old,
if you had it young, life would remain untold;
no one would willingly enlist in this folly,
no one would gladly take up this cross;
no one, but no one, would covet such loss,
as this life supplies, at such a great cost;
kill me then, take me, so that I do no harm,
leave me, still wanting, still sounding alarms;
nothing is nothing and it completely surrounds me,
as slowly I vanish, and you just do not see.
January 24, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.