~for her, one more time~

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she tosses this dagger that instant pierces,
non-stop, the stabbing commencing unceasingly,
the nerve, what am I, plastic, disinfected, the spring
has come to where I live, or so I am told, but the
murderous questioning extracts it, leaving a **** spot

oh god who doesn’t answer me anymore,
offer me comfort, not mere insouciance,
provide a clue, if not an answer, and tell her
to stop asking this poseur, who freely admits
that every day he is fast moving closer to over

cause that the odds the punters provide

and in the city, in my urban garden,
the pigeons, the crows, the sparrows and starlings,
only offer cooing, cawing, and
a  harsh, mocking, NYC accented cackling,
never a birdsong

we will out live you-man,  
with your batty viruses,
but they know better
than to ask,
what do you live by,
when all around me is
early blooming by decay masked,
that this spring brought too early quick,
while we were locked inside
our very own jails....

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