Gas light

You remind me

of the traffic light

on the corner of 8th St,

and Cecil B Moore,

which reads both

yellow and green.

I can blame it

on faulty wiring

in its indented base,

disfigured by drunken

hit and runs.

But with you,

it comes easier

to assign myself

as the culprit

of some wrong doing,

real or imagined.

A wounded animal's lament

1.

I'm tired of being the wolf,

ravished and snarling,

circling patiently for the

slightest nibble of

a bit of meat.

I'd rather starve.

2.

I dream that I have

a new wool coat,

soft and white, unlike

Philadelphia snow,

stomped with grime

from excessive habitation,

and plotting retaliation

with her hardened black ice.

It covers my weather beaten

form, which spells out

my bad decisions, embedded,

in ink.

3.

If I play hard to get,

will you chase me?

Like children calling

duck, duck, goose,

when I tap your shoulder,

will you rise to the challenge

and bring me down,

ripping open my neck

in your conquest,

and then savor your meal,

or abandon me for the vultures?

Constricted

The space between

the mattress and my neck

houses your arm, splayed out

as if in a thrust for territory.

If the roles were reversed,

a thousand needles would be jabbing

me awake, with the pressure from your frame.

But instead, my sleep is stolen

by the jut of your bicep

concluding there is no rest

for the meek.