A Little String to Pull

I remember it like it was yesterday.

How we held hands and cried below a window

filled with light, branches bending the wind.

You wore your blue soul, just the way I like it,

the one with the open back, folds above the hips,

a litle string to pull and find God.

You spent the morning in the Egyptian room,

touching the black sarcophagus , flirting

with the docents, as you remained unnoticed

and passed gas among those

so long dead. So long dead.

Why did you write it this way?

There are better words.

No. These words. This soul. This exhibit. This dress.

And light. A poem without light

is like skinny dipping in the toilet:

indecent, obscene, just the way you like it.

The only way they want it.