Saturday, February 18, 2017

Schooled to be Promiscuous

As I half-wake into the confines of my bed, forsaking
sleep to meet the mandate of the dawn - ritually
microwaving coffee I made yesterday - obediently
padding to the toilet to release the pee backed up
in me since sometime just before the hour of three -

within a gathering complexity of other organized
attempts to stay and stem what I am evidently sure
would otherwise be psychic mayhem - some spirit
like Rapunzel sits inside a little room atop the buttressed
thick-brick locked-up tower of my head, and waits.

She knows for all the gates and barriers I put around her
she will get her kiss. Some rogue she's never met will
find an opening that I have missed through which
she can let drop the golden braid of her deliverance.
Schooled to be promiscuous, she's gotten used to this.


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