Graved For Me

Around the corner, where I cannot see,
I see you waiting, haute couture in verse,
Lines I cannot remember on your face,
Deep, but not embellished, and a bright
Hyperbole of allusion in your eyes.
Around the corner.   Where I cannot see.

What Was In My Pockets Last Night When I Undressed

 

My keys, a pocketknife, the Pietà,

A handkerchief, a poopkit, and a friend

Of Héloïse, who said that Abelard

Was boring, but intense—no mix for men.

And 32¢.  Too little to apprise

A grateful nation of my whereabouts,

A paltriness made for a piggybank;

But I was out of pigs, apparently,

And when I dropped my pants, nobody cared

Enough to hang them up, preserve the crease

For sales meetings, in case there was a need

For Pietàs or handkerchiefs or knives.