Twain

Twain

 

You click send,

in an act of supplication

or revenge:

it’s that time of the month again.

Still, don’t spell it out,

it’s better to have them guess.

Are you sure you want to?

Click Yes.

But your heart isn’t in it,

not in anything 

that could sally forth -

won’t perambulate or set course

and if you could

rend a shirt in twain,

rather than repeat repeat again -

you might.

You just might.

Not visions of you, Maria,

visions of ham,

of a scenery chewing

Cantor Robinovitch

wrenching at material that splits

while Neil Diamond

looking aghast,

grabs guitar to croon his last

Cracklin’ Rosie, Sweet Caroline,

doesn’t scan, is asinine,

oh pray it be the last time,

salivating hordes cheer and clap.

Meanwhile, back -

you’ll take a call,

acknowledgement,

that’s the food,

there’s the rent,

that’s petrol for the rattletrap –

while whipping out a lead line,

rubbing at your Mark Twain

with hardened digits

that do the walking,

listen - everybody's talkin'

at me, it's dishonest

when they sang

with this ring

I thee forget,

of square hoops, of cruet sets

that had no holes put in there yet,

that I will here 

before her set,

then raise a middle finger

and why did you have to 

let it linger?