Tuesday Evening Blues

Evening again and you’re through
with love and the mucky thought of gods
and the crooked beggar in your brain
and the fan finned guppies in the eyes
and what can I do but turn over
pages you can’t eat
speak through teeth loaded with blanks.

Again evening and you’re through.
Your nose is broken
your jaw yaws sideways
ears ring with a hunger too real for poems
too common for such awful talking.

Evening again and you’re through.
And what good am I
lunging around like a wasted ballerina
hands like blades beyond sharpening
low-slung silver warped sickles
with nothing to reap.

Again evening and you’re through.
You’re the last elephant
fallen far behind the herd
a tired mother
and what can I do but witness your lumbering reluctance
leaving the lions to make their living
on the only living thing
you managed to bleed into the world.

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