Careful, those who
care for the caress
of an ironclad yachtsman's
pottle of stout may find
instead, the criminal intent
of a leering lunatic
astride a tiny dinghy;
streams of spittle
in his beard.
You are not
my panacea, never cared
to call you saviour
you ran no marathon
cross agua, you cared
nothing for the cripple
couldn't weep beside
the widow; couldn't
bless an honest dollar
couldn't smile with
the children who beheld
you half in wonder.
For these and other numerous
reasons, you may rage
chained like a demon
in the hell of my indifference
in the hollow of my heart's
soothing, cruel cacophony. |