LEAKY MARIE

 

            for the same

 

She leaked, Marie

perpetual

an’ such rot garlic tears

as when we kissed

I ’onked my innards, near

 

An ’ard one to love

for I could never tell

is she weepy-sad

or custom-leaky?

an’ when I picked wrong

(more ’n not)

it was, natural

on account of bein’ a MAN

 

She weren’t well liked

by nobody, an’ I know

half you superstitioned ’er

to be witcher o’ the floods

these months

an’ sneaked in ghooly to see

if a preacher made ’er

leap from the box

’n burn to clinkers

 

Well, she lies there

pearly - so she weren’t

no witch; no holy

but she weren’t no witcher

let’s be clear

 

Lord, I can smell ’er from here

Rolli

Barnwood poetry magazine