Getting Iambic On Your Ass
Screams of our youth come amended with sighs
Barely knowing the future or past still we spoke.
Contrite in that knowledge, it’s my fault it broke.
Reciprocate contact, too genuine to guise.
Meetings replete with wandering thoughts, eyes
Pink lacks in focus what blue lacks in smoke,
A movement could startle, a look would provoke.
What belies that look is too great to surmise.
Resigned to colorless arrangements of rules,
Deflect, denigrate, deflower, demur.
Bitter pills, blind alleys are now de rigeuer,
My hands made lackluster, prosaic tools.
Atonement can never quite render hands clean;
Lamenting what summer once used to mean.
Sweat drips down my neck.
Divine providence would bring:
Speedo day at work.