Love, I can’t go, we never existed,
only in fragments, abattoir clinches
of cold embraces, imagined, listed
“fling” in the telephone directory.
Love, I can’t go, my laces are untied,
I don’t have the fare, I’m in penury.
Love, I can’t go, the neighbours are noisy,
someone has to bang the broom on the floor.
The cat’s fur is unnaturally oily,
the dog’s swallowed the sea and all the ships,
you don’t want me. I preach in flophouses
to get fed. There’s ink on my fingertips
from reading all that Marxist literature.
Love, I can’t go, I’ve sold my signature.
Grant Tarbard is an editorial assistant for Three Drops From A Cauldron, and a reviewer. His new collection Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams) will be released soon.