I wore a mask when I married the mayor.
"You'll need a nutcracker," I warned,
But he performed the ceremony himself,
At gunpoint, and with mirrors.
When I stopped laughing, I invited him to kiss me.
He sent in miners with pick axes.
"We will be so happy," I confabulated,
Going en pointe like a dog or a dancer.
He demanded that I show myself,
But, daringly, I escaped into the sewers.
Woody and hollow, I floated on the waters
Like a little Moses, but female, and cuter.
My husband deputized the pool hall boys,
And, with authority, they bulldozed the Spring.
Like angels undressing, the apple trees fell
Snapping, never giving their names.
"Okay okay, don't have kittens," I crabbed,
And revealed myself from the pipes like a miracle.
"My love!" he crowed,
And when I bore him a litter in the crook of a snow pile,
He handed out cigars
To our children, and to me,
So great was his sudden magnanimity.
That was then, of course, and I've doctored it a bit for the historians,
But in time,
I put down the gin and picked up women,
Running hell for sunday down the boulevard, going wild.
In the end, it was for nothing.
Now look at me; there are stray cats in better shape,
And who write better, and who have day jobs on the straight.
There are moon-mad raccoons making the garbage rounds
Who snob me, and do the deed where I can see,
Just to rub my nose in it.
Still, if the matron strip searches me before tossing me in my pen to rot,
She will find the poems I wrote for you,
And she will feel like she is in church;
She will swoon on the spot
At what I could do when I was in love,
Vibrantly, fiercely proud of that minute when I was happy
And the bloom of who I was
I wasn't having any luck writing new drivel, so I trotted out the serious juju. One Bolthouse Farms vanilla chai tea later, presto, a poem.
I hope that Marian will forgive my leap from Levon Helm (her music prompt) to Bob Dylan.