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. . . We run . . .
.
. . . reaching . . .
.
. . .searching . . .
.
. . . climbing . . .
.
. . . into fragile arms
. . .
hiding from a cold
lover
looking for a soul
to entice / sweep away the hurt / conquer the pain
. . . We run . . .
.
. . . reaching . . .
.
. . .searching . . .
.
. . . climbing . . .
.
. . . into fragile arms
. . .
hiding from a cold
lover
looking for a soul to
entice / sweep away the hurt / captivate
the pain
|
we make love behind the
security of a locked door
in the dark of a
crowded room
papers on the floor,
books on the bed pushed aside
for kisses / smiles /
whispers
would your blonde wife
understand?
(her coldness forced you here)
Does she know
her hot water bottle
lies limp
in another woman’s arms
in another woman’s bed
Does your green-eyed
son know
his father naps with a
woman
twelve years older than
himself?
twelve years younger
than his daddy?
And your blue-eyed
daughter
Does she know
her mommy’s substitute
is the lady who
calls asking for her
daddy?
Where do I fit in?
Which place do I
replace in the puzzle?
Will my brown face be
placed over your wife’s
(in the picture on the bureau)?
Or
Am I the shadow behind
her (in the family portrait)?
Am I hidden behind the
curtain (in the photographer’s studio)?
(or) in the bottom of
the ink well (on the desk)?
Where do I fit in?
Am I the Black Angel
hanging from the
Christmas tree
with Hallmark stamped
across my feet
a red bow tied around
my neck
and a chipped wing
the first ornament
removed
thrown in the box
bent & broken
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