The matchmaker man left milk instead
of bread again and I fear
his mission ending on my porch
suggested remorse for his debt,
and his fear deep down of what's in my head.
Taking the milk jars inside, no bread
or way to light my fires,
of course,
a short brittle reprise from what i see is no surprise
the fire has been dead for me so long now
the matchboy has grown and possibly forgotten
his tired losses and ill-gotten
gains at my expense and detriment, yet I
have little sentiment and even less design
on his bread and matches for naught
of nightly cries and warehouse thoughts
in my rolling brain waves of reclusive nut grains
just bits of food to feed this lanky frame
is not enough for me
or eternal enough for us
his hunger impaling me, my whole, a game?
I consider it with a glass of milk for my kitty,
a ******* reminder of the world outside me,
a challenge to out-decide
a riddle or maybe a small coincidence
in a series of incidents
cascading in an order
of shorter and shorter endurance
and more disorder, first in betrayal
and ending in a chaotic hailstorm
of fear, dread, remorse and debt ...
I am saying that I am no matter
what begets at my front door, regret,,,,,?
Another telegram from a war torn hell?
and it might as well
come to me in that way
because the things my brain conjures
on silent Mondays, or will it be sympatico
that knocks on my door like a
redheaded woodpecker bangs?
