Language of the Poets

It is not riddles that make

a Paris wife supportive.

I fought for my sanity

in sonnets

knocked over haikus

along the way

to the cemetary,

my peak breasts loosened 

for the weight of the world

while age lays locked in them

like portraits of the 1920’s.

I have the power

and it scares me

to stare at it head on

collide into you

by accident

or on purpose

scheming hellos and goodbyes

at train stations

and airports.

Take a road trip

to my heart

pass the detours

like the Montreal construction

nightmare. Grand Prix 

weekend again

watch the women

take pictures

on Ferraris.

I know it is stale now

like left over morning toast;

you wonder if you should eat the crust

or throw it out

or take one more bite.

I mean no harm ever

even my enemies like me,

I only want to have my affair

with poetry

and leave all men

and women

at arm’s length.

You taught me to breathe

in Japanese

spoke to me in 5, 7, 5 slang

then left me to suffocate

in the language of poets.

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