Remember the Maine

 

(My) lovers might last longer

I say to the dog, a philosopher of sorts himself,

were they more like Teddy Roosevelt

or even Alice. 

They'd look killing

in stiff collars

of khaki

or Irish lace.

Things are never the same

as they appear in the catolog.

Lovers are never as nice

when they want you to do crazy, perverse, upsetting things

like leaving the house.

That innocent carton

knows its milk will go bad, but won't say so.

It still wants to talk about forever,

especially at 3 a.m.

I always recommend blaming the Spanish

for any little thing that may happen to blow up.

You have such honest eyes,

such lovely hands when you take mine.

"Talk to me," you say,

in a voice as warm as Havana Harbor.

"Remember the Maine!" is what I say as you get up to pack,

but Teddy would have grinned

and Alice would have understood.

---------

Image: "Woman Standing In Doorway" by Albert de Belleroche (1864-1944)

Lucky

Luck doesn't just happen.

It bakes. Time is the oven.

Like that? ^^

Fuckinay.

You're lucky to know me. 

You could have been hit by an SUV

and ended up in the hands of a quack hiding from the Anti-Defamation League.

Geez, would you look at the weird shit in jars on his shelf

(If he existed.

If that driver hadn't swerved.) 

Luck is the residue of design

like jam on a knife

at the breakfast table of infinity.

Whoa, nice, right? ^^

You were lucky when you ran out of here

carrying all that shit.

Lucky traffic was light.

Lucky the sun was up.

Lucky you got me to sign my (brilliant, fantastic) book

before you ran out of here like a chicken from the skillet,

jabbering about luck

and some other unkind hoo-ha about the funny papers.

________

for Sunday Muse #130.