Tonight my nerves are torn,
fraying like a wire nibbled by rats,
and I’m no Plato; I’m tired of ideals only
and of hobbling through life forlorn
on my two legs -
as useless now as yellowed spats
from ancient days.
Imaginings don’t satisfy,
nor pictures in books
or potatoes boiling on the stove -
only the illusion of your body next to mine
and the jazz pouring out of the radio.
- 10/29/08
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