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An after-mask of my obsessions—
Sweet miracle Kate, like an
after-current in dark streams,
she resonates within hidden dreams
You know, Kate, we gamblers
always detest the easy,
the break even, the staid

Injury to injury
she grits, laughs and dances
He proudly swims within her roiled waters
and she shows him her surgical scars
These two, their delicacy, sensitivity, sadness—
Say what you will, our mortality’s just
another story, until it scorches us past madness

They built that little five story
all white tile and brick
How bad it looks now
after years of city soot
like an old man’s yellowed
tobacco stained teeth,
like a memory of illness

When they trained Willy to sell
They taught him to shout to himself
“Hey, I’m Willy the king salesman
I have a hundred dollars in my back pocket
I can sell, sell, sell”
Time is inexorable, it moves
like a ghost that leaps

“No, there’s nothing wrong
with this bottle of wine,”
he said, as he sat alone,
to the waiter in this expensive,
vulgar, Manhattan steakhouse
“I just don’t like it
Please, take it back

I’ll pay for it and,” he points to the menu,
“bring me this one instead”
What if I embarrass myself to myself?
How will I learn to accept her gifts?
Her eyes are blue like mine and get this—
When your body bets it all,
and your cancer is curable, you win

 

 

-July 9, 2017-