Demands

The weeping tears of the poppy call to her like a child
and she rushes to lie down and comfort its demands
in a warm embrace on a bottomless mattress
as they float away together leaving their troubles
on the dirty floor far below.

I call her from her doorstep with shaky hope and tickets
and she answers the phone with tired, slurred excuses
and my aching heart demands that I just drive home
to curl up in a ball on the dirty floor with my troubles
defeated and all alone.