by

Robert H. Dirr Jr.

I find myself bounded by supporters and women who wholeheartedly want to trespass
Inside my recuperating soul, like panhandlers at a bus station or zealots in a missionary.
It is barren and bitter in there and I sometimes shiver from the ice that keeps me warm,
For it merely symbolizes the fact that all I have ever learned from love is getting even.

I have traded two wedding rings for sustained sorrow and anguish and sought elusive
Greener pastures only to find dandelions and crabgrass and the inevitable horseflies
That lay their eggs in the midst of the stench and rotting byproducts of past affairs.
Death had reserved accommodations for me on the transit to hell, but I missed the bus.

Now all that was wrong has been righted and the oily slickness that was once my soul
Is freely floating upon the oceans of life. Previous problems and partners and pain are
Trapped within the pretentious dregs and mires of the sinister bottom, like entwined
Lovers lost in simple pleasures. There is no one to thank for my existence but you.

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