No Time For Cupid
There’s a clock on my wall
in the den – striking ten
as I slink down the hall -
simply remembering when
our passion was valid
and truthful
and honored
and sacred.
Now the clock strikes again
chiming four – on the floor,
a famous cherubim
writhes from the lash of my claw.
His flush face turns pallid.
He’s cringing there
duct-taped
and naked.
See my blood loom like lye
in a glass on your table.
So swig me and swill me -
there’s no warning label
to inform you of danger
when romance goes awry.
Your amorous arrows
belie.
Once again the clock strikes
singing eight – it’s too late
as I relive the likes
of a cursed crippled fate -
without legs to stand on
I’ll falter
and stumble
to then fall.
Six a.m.- dawn has cracked.
You may leave – please perceive
your silk bags are all packed
there’s no time to bereave
and before you’re begone -
take this clock,
as your gift,
from my wall.
My aorta grew cold
in a bowl on your table.
Now chew me and chomp me
and swallow when able.
Cupid’s retiring -
and his bow’s being sold;
his lackluster work
I’ve cajoled.
Written for and dedicated to
my loving Father: John M. Heck
01/18/1935 - 02/14/2003
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