to be true

I look down,
from time to time,
as I type:
I see the vicious monster,
knowable,
perhaps not scientifically,
but still,
by type;
she will rob me,
quiet, in the dark of
night,
when I am not looking,
O, what a terrible fate
she has cooking,
deep inside me;
Kristie asked if I had
given her a name,
and I laughed,
pretty much the same
laugh that I reserve
for old lovers,
the one that knows
no boundaries of the
covers;
and I told her no,
but that I had thought
of naming her Kristie,
so that we could be
closer,
somehow;
but now,
with no cavalry
on the horizon,
I think I may just call
her Bitch,
as if anything at all,
would disinfect
the Witch,
that will toss me
one last ball.

but she will only
defeat this meat bag
that I have been
consigned to;
she will not get at
the man
that you pledged
your love to;
she does not have
that power,
that control,
though she seeks it;
it will not be hers,
she will only be left
with a pile of shit,
and I will be free,
to go from galaxy
to galaxy:
searching for you.

and I will find you,
and you know this
to be true.



August 4, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.