04-02-2014, 06:59 AM
An Injured Psyche
Dear Venus, I no longer search the bars
and pubs for ghosts. I sensed your waif-like form
brush by in nightclubs, slipping into cars--
long out the door before I drank the worm.
I pine no more for you or heaven, God
knows where it is; up in the stars, cross-legged,
or pissing on the neighbor's lightening rod,
after the last bad boss that ran you ragged.
There is a spirit that I used to know
though, and still keep; it whistles from the pines
at night, and howls on Cupid's radio--
where ambulances go, a siren whines.
Dear Venus, I no longer search the bars
and pubs for ghosts. I sensed your waif-like form
brush by in nightclubs, slipping into cars--
long out the door before I drank the worm.
I pine no more for you or heaven, God
knows where it is; up in the stars, cross-legged,
or pissing on the neighbor's lightening rod,
after the last bad boss that ran you ragged.
There is a spirit that I used to know
though, and still keep; it whistles from the pines
at night, and howls on Cupid's radio--
where ambulances go, a siren whines.