A mosquito bites me
then follows me downstairs,
drinking me while I drink my coffee.
I swat at it but miss,
which is exactly the metaphor here
with these dumb desperate poems.
hoping you hear it
while you are sleeping
and dreaming in non sequiturs.
Yours are the only ears,
I reckon,
that I want to hear.
Bloodshed is all the rage
this year,
but it ain't on my page.
My back hurts
because of the blues,
and carrying these poems
about you.
Despite the distractions,
I only have so many tracks,
railroad and song.
While her septum ring
is sexy sometimes,
she ain't you.