Two Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

telephony

over a
month of
bittersweet
silence
thirty-six
days, to
be precise

and then
the princess
calls, says
that she
misses me
in spite of
her social
schedule

a perpetual
busy signal

so, she
misses me
she says
though my
answering
machine
tells me
otherwise

and after
more than
a month
on ice

i would
sooner be
drinking
hot bourbon
in hell
than be
just another
number

chilling in
her little
black book



transfusion

the broken
man opened
up the
main vein
of his life
and let his
sadness
bleed out

then he
filled the
emptiness

with
cheap
whiskey
and
cheaper
wine

it didn't
do any-
thing for
his soul

but it did
seem to
improve his
circulation.

1 comment:

Billy Joe said...

I really like Telephony

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