--THAT’S A SONG FOR ANOTHER TIME

                                             Ghosting

You leave behind an orphaned mask.  A dry smolder.  Carbon.  Forensics. 

Every condom is rabid and squirming on the floor. 

In the bathroom hangs a poster of The Vitruvian Man smirking in a mirror that can no longer tell time, or the truth. 

This hour of night is rather foolish, gamey and unrepentant.  Even the mockingbirds hide their heads in shame.

A brief history:

One day the letter opener turned anorexic and started cutting.

A vase of tulips ate their stems and threw up their young.

The appliances had warned me with their constant nodding, This way. Not that.  But sometimes my bones can be so stubborn. 

Even the mattress has tired of holding up its end of the bargain. 

The nightstand says, Penny for your remorse. 

All the while, the bedsprings shudder, hike up their coils, remain speechless and infirm.

—UH-UH

Water Fowl

It’s an uncommon, moonless night. 

The ducks on this lake pair off,

loop and entwine their necks. 

A brisk, voluntary snap. 

A spasmodic flutter of feathers. 

A turgid stiffening. 

A slow sink.

From the base of the water,

I watch their hazy drop. 

Their webbed feet seem to

reach out for each other,

trying to imitate Otters,

fumbling for security one last time.

But the water is jilted and committed.

Contaminated.

There are other carcasses

and feigned dreams to

dodge and dredge,  

other husks that mar

the beauty of this suicidal pool. 

But really, it’s because the bottom

wants them too much.

As they float past me,

I recognize one, but not the other. 

What I mean is, I can’t identify either. 

They might be us.

They might be me. 

If they’re you, then

you got want you wanted all along,

whether or not you’ll admit it.