JUST TEN MINUTES LEFT

by Peter Burzynski

 

Your low errand. Remember all the bras you’ve seen?
     How about that one with the lace? Eat your food
and forget your gods. The cat lays next to you as a troublesome ox.
     It is less of a vigil, with that rouge of him lying next to you,
innocently licking scabs. Ill things were said of you
     when you spewed excrement
on the desk that closed on your pants. It was made again with paint.
     True, dear, everyone knew that your family was a battered pack
of lesser eagles quailing your name. The cat is dancing, tilting, nipping
     at your ear. Let the view run away, so you can leave safe.
Your shoes are slipping off the ottoman, remember that bra, hands, cholera?

At your birth, father parked askew, panting about any diaper fumes.
You, a baby, had to tend this clueless cretin’s passion; an eager mess
of all hues. He would head back secure, all of it out of head. Brace it,
instead aim at toilets. You told lies about your debris. Father not mad?

Portraits! To all of my faces appearing here, dance! Go loose
     on a lunar press. Later, I will stop later.
This basket case rants. A solvent beer should help you now.
     It was just harmless a futile lard deli feta sandwich.
Heartburn, attack, death? It just happens.
     Enchanted, your irises grow sore of being seen.

Eyes that cannot stand mess are your atlas now. They are a grave staircase
of hums. You live in a fervent era of gems. Levied time thin during a coma.
     The universal axe dives at you? Eden was seen last in God’s
     plain death, it was a poet’s adjective. Less has mattered?
Hand attendants came to bag the empty old man.

 

 

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