The Month After

Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic

potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the

spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues cos

my throats been misused and my voice is a crack in

the tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post,

with a pamphlet. With an order; "Take this when the

pain gets too much!" I confess I feel nothing at all . . .

I'm bored and you're bald, but I laughed when you

called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me.

I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture

yourself--but your brown eyes I know so very well.

They're sadder and wiser; We've finally been

through it all. Now our time's slowly ticking away.

Do you think there's a heaven? [ Backwards: I feel nothing at

all ]