Mrs. Toad
I’ve got more in mind to write tonight
than fourteen lines of perfect metaphor ...
that’s not what my words are for.
They are for you.
When I came to you,
I saw you broken, straggling,
struggling in a life that didn’t care.
I wanted to open up my mouth
and let love pour out.
I reached deep,
deep into my bag of tricks
to tantalize you.
Every coin I payed out
every drama played out
you payed back a hundred-fold,
no lesson lost, and some you taught
back to me when my pouch grew empty.
When the poems stopped flowing,
you wrote me songs.
You serenade my eyes
with the Yamaha you pawned
when we thought our love was lost.
You drag your six-string over
with your lunchbox, workclothes
and a Thermos of coffee
just to stay a single night and sing to me.
Victory is yours, I wear your ring
its tiny diamond sparkles like a star
on my finger while I linger
in the tiny pocket I call my office
over at Tech. Stronger every day
gathering light
like the dark orifices
of my soul.
At first it was uncomfortable.
Rough edges of the setting
gouged my hands as I washed,
snagged my sweater as I buttoned
the small pearls against the AC.
But now,
I rub my itchy fingertips against it,
and when I take it off,
it feels odd.
It’s taken the place of my college signet -
you know,
the one they made me take off
in the nuthouse.
I never put it back on.
White river round house
gathering cicadas, flies
Here comes Mrs. Toad!
1998 SilkCocoon
