O my generalissima, your voice
sounded like a lactating chainsaw
as you commanded me out of your life.
I retaliated by not renewing my
subscription to Piquant Living
magazine. Also, I swallowed
the key to your place and put on
red slippers. On the street,
I looked up to see my things
falling. They piled up in drifts
of shame. The pleather underwear
had been a gift from you.
People gathered and laughed.
I taught them a folk-dance.
And now it is later,
and I work at a drive-thru
mortuary and am studying
to become a fish-whisperer.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
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1 comment:
Hans, seems as though you are a very busy fellow. I like the poem.
"Lactating chainsaw" - I like those words.
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