My Geisha
It was that damn, no wax, light blue floor.
That was the last atrocity, the very last straw.
Spilled spoils, splattered toils, Roach Motel sadness.
Soilent dust collected from a kitchen cooking madness.
I said, "Sweetheart, it's over. No more. I am done."
"It's time for my geisha. To be born. To become."
Her books I discarded: Cosmo. and Real,
Obliterating all scuff marks of boots and high heels.
At the entrance to each room I posted a sign:
"NO SHOES SHALL BE WORN IN THIS HOUSE OF MINE!"
I said, "Sweetheart, it's over. No more. I am done."
"It's time for my geisha. To be born. To become."
I purchased and dressed her in costumes divine,
Of gold and spun silk, a traditional line.
She learned the art of walking on my back without a hitch.
She fed me like an emperor and scratched my every itch.
Until that rabid day I lost my lovely geisha ...
To a *****!
Now I'm rejected, neglected and shunned.
No wife. No geisha. No body. No sun.
I could have foretold the events you have read:
A carpet abused unweaves its thread.
Still, I must have my geisha --
To my grave I will tread....
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