Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
The Muse I Once Had
Wrapped inside the cages of hedonistic
Byways, looking for the hemlock of the anniversary one
Last time,
At least I can say I kissed her lips and held on to
Her, and took her out into the waves
Even though she could not swim: which made all of the tourists
Watch us even more;
And we made love: and we made love in almost a year
Of adultery,
But all throughout those fiery nights, the souls of my
Words ran lonely-
And it got colder as more of the years approached:
She went back to him, sated and bent and subtle like
Soft wood I had imprinted with my telephone number:
And her two children, waiting for fireworks-
Hungry as rabbits- she said she was not a good mother,
But she would not leave them- A Mexican woman,
Her husband exhibiting entire control over her,
Except for with me- for this last year,
And the times we made love- now she is a lion,
A rose content to be a in a cage- and when I see her mother
Cleaning the windows of the Italian restaurant
Along Okeechobee Boulevard- working without
A smile, bent and overweight- I think of the muse I once had,
And I think that must be her.
poem
by
Bret R. Crabrooke
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black