The Ravens’ rich harmony flows from my
Dell, mellow rhythm and blues massaging
my heart like DeBakey in surgery.
I gaze at the snapshot where she’s blogging.
Gaze for hours, fool that I am, addicted
to those sad eyes, or is that my sadness
mirrored through, fool that I am, predicted
by my angels to wallow in madness
of her present and our past she’s folded
away in a cedar chest or tossed out
with the kitty litter years ago. Ted
will have to deal with my pouting or shouts
at lunch, fool that I am. Wait. Will I bleat?
Or should I kiss her pix, then click Delete?
Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2007
