Poem #108

The fallen star: the dead rock burning still…

1 April 2017

She walks right through the door of no real lives,
and Stella that she is, holds ‘Phil’s hands’ old veins
tight in her own; they hop the bars; the day
they visit mimics Sundays, school children play house
in the road: the school lights are off. I need
the whiskey from the bottom shelf; We are portly,
praising Bacchus, dancing with fauns, another shot drops
down my throat, and  I  think, what  if  Beatrice
had lived
,  when old drunkard sucks on my love’s
bosom, and yet, somber while she snores next
to me in soft flannel sheets, I dread the
last word: open. And yet,  I wish to watch.

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