Saturday, March 21, 2015

Jumble (a draft)

You agreed
to be my muse,

not knowing
what that meant,

how my sleepy Bengal
will lick his paws

and read the poetry
you inspire.

He'll hear my keys
being tapped

by my cracked nails,
and the thumping

of my leg
against my desk

(because I can't seem
to sit still, ever)

as I think about
the planet, the way

the world juggles
its people and their

twitching cities,
the way this

God thing gets
under my skin,

the moment I met you,
the second I forgot you,

the eloquent eulogies
I plan for my funeral,

the stupid things
I contemplate:

the tall drinking glass
that doesn't shine anymore,

the lemon oil
I add to my water,

the spiral bound book,
the calculator,

the business cards,
the brooch,

the ounce
of protection

I might have
given myself

had I not asked
you to be mine.

KMG
March 21, 2015
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