On The Subject of Enduring Love
I have sent my driver, with the map in his head.
He'd be better off blindfold.
Better off dead.
Banter with him as events unfold.
Pretend you've not gone mephitic and old.
Forever is the thing, forever is the word.
Forever the mounted, desiccated bird.
I have sent my car with the soft leather seats.
All the ash trays nailed,
sick with sweets.
I wait for you breathless, gloved and veiled
tubercular, powdered, primped and paled.
Here love's cricket who last night chirred
lies dead in the mouth of that god-damned bird.
for The Sunday Muse #165, where I am hosting.