deepundergroundpoetry.com
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.
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.
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