The Year Winds Down #3: Shirt And Tie

Once I compared my love for a woman—
the sense of oneness I felt when with her—
to the way a sharp shirt looks when paired with
a very hip tie. I really mailed out
a short poem built around that metaphor
to a woman I hoped to have sex with.

Yeah. After that I’d have had better luck
with the dry cleaner girl who speaks Chinese.

I’m fervently hoping writing this poem
might be possibly the equivalent—
the beatnik and bongos equivalent—
of the Catholic believer’s practice
of purging their soul via confession.

Somewhere up in the clouds of Olympus
the Muses are looking away from me.
They’re terrified they might see me scribble
something like that shirt and tie thing again.

Oh Nine Heavenly Babes, please don’t give up.

Daughters of Mnemosyne, I confess
and I’m heartily sorry for my sins.