by Loren Goodman

My love is a windowsill, longing blinds
For that which longer gasps this disease;
Feeding on sandwich doth preserve grandma,
The uncertain sickly appetite to laugh.
My reason, the barber to my beard,
Angry that his scissors are not sharp,
Hath left me, and I desperate now juggle
Desire in plastic, which physics dork excerpt.
Past bird I am, not reason is past air,
And septic fad with even more personality;
My thoughts and my hair as bad as MENSA,
At random from the bangs vainly sequestered;
       For I have flaunted the fair, and thought thee bright,
       Who art black as crayon, and dark as skull

Pub. May 1998 DRC