Lucky

I’ve lost the last of my autonomy,
Which you will notice if you light the lamp
And watch me dancing: I can twirl and stamp,
Reminding you of the taxonomy
Of horses and horse-ploughed agronomy,
But suddenly I’ll bend over with cramp,
Succumbing to the silence and the damp,
And losing what’s left of my bonhomie.

Having been branded as a hopeless case,
I start each morning searching for lost hope
With nothing but dread and a telescope.
The losses mount, the truth is on my face:
I’ve been abandoned by fortune and grace,
Lucky to be merely a misanthrope.

Recipes for Endless War

You’re marching from the river to the sea,
Blithely creating one more Holocaust,
A heady thrill, to drive the enemy
Into the deep salt waters. They are lost.
You will be murdering the children, too:
No one is safe, no one escapes unharmed,
Not dancers, visitors, the clean-up crew,
The unloved, the unwary, the unarmed.
Still, though having been burned by genocide,
No one has earned the privilege to bully,
Too many little children having died.
I’m not sure that you understand this fully.
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong,
I heard. (Nothing to see here. Move along.)

I Kissed You Once

I kissed you once. It was on New Year’s Eve,
Before midnight. Once midnight finally came
You found yourself addressing an old flame
With much more than enough verve to conceive.
It did occur to me I ought to leave,
But I had almost nothing to my name
And I enjoyed the bubbly, to my shame,
So I allowed myself a brief reprieve.

I wasn’t really tipsy, around two,
When you informed me stoutly you were Mab,
Queen of the Fairies. “Call a taxicab,”
I answered. “I’m tired, and I’m done with you.”
Somebody else gave you a ride. Make do;
I’ve disengaged now, and pulled off the scab.

She Wears the Trousers

She wears the trousers, so I wear a dress:
So silky on my thighs, swivelling free,
Its hem not very far above the knee
But high enough so that she feels the stress
When I forget myself and worry less
Than I ought to about my modesty,
Sitting, my legs apart, too readily
Displaying all my — who would I impress?

But now she’s put on trousers, so my crotch
May be the only power I’ve got left,
My one last place of clear sexual heft,
So yes, I’m hoping that the girls will watch.
I’ll sigh and pour myself a dram of Scotch,
And pray she doesn’t leave my heart bereft.