Another sleepless night

Yesterday Women

Coffee pot love
Such a strange place to be
And so drunk

Thinking of yesterday women trying to wash me with their ragged ways
Trying to dry launder and absolve me
For all the promises I so keenly made and so idly met
Sorely sworn as a truth worth losing by that old Mediterranean love
I’ve read so much about
Which in the moment of its conceit thickens the blood and leaves you desperate
A sculptor without hands to save his soul
That ancient Latinate, bitter-seeded pomegranate love
Whose red flesh bleeds sweet on doorsteps of the truly courageous
While the less deceived among us
Look on imploringly in their silence and speak of truths
As if they were mere coincidence imaginatively wrought

But always in the night there are the same primal whispers calling us back
The same old sailors singing back to their shipwrecked women,
The sweethearts of their innocence
Who won’t disappoint, but may leave you someday
To your bric-a-brac bird’s nest memory,
Beaten like old linoleum and sick with curfew smiles

Such is the sickness that reaches in such moments
The great legacy of lonely stupid men