Friday, January 21, 2011


Sometimes I keep watch
to see when you're fishing
for a fresh catch,
small and slippery
and too nimble to let you
insert your hook.
Your bow, poised and ready,
or just posturing?
We both know you aren't
flexible enough to shoot an arrow,
thrown off balance before the zip
squish, and ping.

While you don't speak
as loudly as I do, (you can blame it
on my upbringing, and you have)
you still manage to make enough noise,
dragging your foot with it's rhythmic thud,
the sound of your gait thumped
forever into my memory,
to frighten off females,
even more finicky and capricious than you.
And like a beggar
who has bathed and shaved
revealing eyes much too close together
and slightly drooping,
your nose spindly and rat like,
shoulders hunched, spine twisted,
no amount of preening
will keep them from getting too close,
not that you'd let them.

It's sad that money can't buy you
prowess, or affection,
because that's all you have,
perhaps the illusion of it,
but that's good enough for you, right?
And sooner or later you'll stumble upon
someone feeble, tame, limping,
that I'd pray for, if I prayed,
who will swoon, much like I did
before I grew horns, and hooves
to fend off those too weak
to capture me.

No comments:

Post a Comment