The Poet the Patient
Posted: Wednesday, January 14, 2009
by Jeff Brown
Inner Projection
Flourish, burgeon, bloom . . .
What is it in me that shirks
the nail in the sure place? Try as I may
I can't keep the same job, name or address.
The little woman with fishnet nightcap
and blazing green teeth keeps visiting me.
"Omen, you say?
I'm just here to collect the rent."
If I don't comply she'll take a stick
to the back of my knees.
Sometimes I go right home
after losing a job. Other times
I sit on the park bench and consult
the finch or quail. But only as a diversion,
because I'm really waiting for my advisor,
flecked and furled, a bucktoothed sage
of spasms and twitches.
He has a gift you know. Amongst his peers
he's won the Pulitzer for most aggressive
indifference. Don't shake your head, I was there
presenting with tears and trembling kisses.
For him I have the highest regard, sitting on hind legs,
expounding a world gone to dogs in high places,
releasing his tail with overbite of mirrored chagrin.
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