Potbelly Moon

for B., who likes the horrid truth

Waxing lyrical again,
or just waxing, perhaps -
the great white clock,
no numerals needed;
just a voice to say it's time

and chime, and chime, and chime,
a dolorous kneading,
the human mind its dough.

I follow it across the rooves,
two lovers caught in stride
beside each other as
the wind says all we need to say:
that I am here,
and I am not alone.

It was in the bleak
and boring September -
that horrible middling month
not quite summer, Christmastime,
or even Halloween -
when I saw you again
on my way to the shop.

You said it's time
just as we saw a pretty girl
in heels to spear a Spartan's heart
appear outside the sliding doors.
Brunette, alone, yet brimming with companionship
that I could only find in your mute distance...

Like lovers caught in stride
we follow her,
Potbelly Moon and Me,
the lonely strangler
of hope, and lust and hate and jealousy.