The Siege

Your fake breasts depressed me,

when I saw you in the

sterile café,

next to your sterile cup

with the froth measured

to within a millimeter

of the specified quantity.

Do the men still

froth at the mouth for you?

I plunged through the

depths of my pockets

for the lint that would

light the ashes of my soul.

But today you,

and all the women and the books

despised me.

I strolled along these streets

lined with trees,

planted like murdered statues,

and decaying poles

and always the girls,

who are heavy as iron clamps

in the road,

and won’t let the world

leap from its pit.

And at the corner,

I waited for the traffic light,

which, like you,

has so thoroughly tamed me.

And always, the girls

lingered about me

with their impossibly high skirts

that measured the melancholy of the world.

I’d have loved to kiss all of them,

to have embraced them bitterly

and command

they raise this siege.

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