I hate the drowning man
who digs
into my skin
wants me to
take a swim
with him
I hate the wounded man
who
staggers
into my
arms
convulsing
and puking
My little child
spitting up
and crying
for his bottle
My aching back has
carried him
to act as
launching pad
not landing
strip
I’ll cut the cord
then I can
love this satellite
I love the pampered man
who
swaggers
out of my
arms
displaying
his many charms for the other ones
He walks out head held high
dressed to
the nines
with
feathers in his cap
plucked
from my back
My aching back has
carried him
to act as
launching pad
not landing
strip
I’ll cut the cord
then I can
love this satellite
the way
that one should love a star
(from a
distance)
No comments:
Post a Comment