Common Grave
The garbage truck
litters night
with primordial sounds
like the caterwaul
of tin cans
behind unlit alleys.
In less than a minute
all the day's
leftovers are
swallowed definitively
into a drumroll
of black plastic sacks
stiff with
potato peelings,
chicken fat,
pizza slices left
for the dog which
was repaid
with half-digested
stench on
the welcome mat,
rosaries of
tampons
bloated red,
dust balls collected
in labelled bags
of vacuums,
plus all the plastic
and styro-foam
underhandedly sold
to consumers
behind 'for hygiene
purposes' tags.
By morning the city's
dead will be buried
in common grave.
Aubade
with apologies to van Gogh
Dawn slashes with agony
of flamingo clouds drowning
slowly in mandarine dye.
Sun smashes through
the windowpane while he sleeps,
lightly tanning in the heat,
his ringed finger courteously
hiding beneath the sheets.
You kneel beside him,
naked as Aphrodite
floating ashore in her giant clam.
Your four-day's love scissors
along this dotted line
sending propriety to the dogs.
And you catch your left ear
deftly in your palm:
token pledge of unrequited fidelity.
As you tuck your rubicund ache
under his pillow and leave,
you hope he understands.
(revision of what previously appeared on-line in Mentress Moon, October 1999)
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