I should have let
the floodgates open,
as you spoke
such drivel and drool.
The only fool left standing
(as you said you loved),
was me.
I cleared my throat
to expectorate,
recalling our lunch in Spain.
The Costa del Sol
as I'd lost my wallet
you explained,
she is a Yank
and does not fully comprehend.
Always,
the British slight.
Yet,
faithfully
I remained.

The Missive

Why am I sad?
So bad at recalling your face,
or the texture of your skin,
hoping to keep some piece of you,
within.
Any thing,
as I traveled to Peru,
missing you,
and wanting more.
I wretched in a strange place,
not knowing where I was.
But I knew
I was
missing you,
and could
barely continue
this missive.

The Feel of Spandex

It's a routine exam.
No need to get undressed,
to check arthritic joints
and all the rest which fails.
It's getting worse,
he assails with words.
Then, his hand
runs the length of my leg,
tracing meager contours and curves.
I am vexed
and wonder,
is it me
or the feel of spandex
he desires?

---

Continually Deadened

As peristalsis,
I had to rid my system.
A molting of skin
from without and within.
I simply had to be free
of him.
The duodenum
the cerebellum,
any sense of his being.
He was an infection
to be purged.

I'm lighter now,
perhaps in the head.
But better
than continually,
deadened.

No Man

My client sat near the philodendron,
it's shiny leaves receding.
Anthony said, 'I'm concave',
and he begged me to save him
from himself.
But he was a cavern,
a bottomless pit.
He transmogrified
as a snowman in the sun,
quickly changing from solid to gas.
He was an amorphous mass
seated on my couch.
And as an M.C. Escher print
he began spiraling in,
until coal black eyes
and a button nose
were all
that remained.


Contact Joan at boodles1@aol.com