On Hold
My resume holds no job.
This drug is what I possess. And problems,
ongoing dimensions of pretension exceeding rainbows.
Clothes tossed, deceits whispered at daybreak.
The lover pieces puzzles
while one more slumbers, his wine-burdened toasts
forgettable, vanishing
even as I see castles in the air weaving
tangled webs of impossible thread,
good girl, honest, always striving,
sober, smart and waiting to assist
ladder-climbers and religious zealots,
the dream a sky in my lungs
arranges me dizzy, approved
by the snobs I might be jealous of.
All of a sudden the lover calls
and there he is, aware,
whiffing of sprayed starch, observing
these eyes, the glossy eyeballs. I’ll deny kilograms
to him as the sun swaps colors,
creams of yellow flushing into bloodshot
and at night, the moon’s glow
capturing another lover and the hold of my drug.
Copyright © Nikkia Roberts | Year Posted 2014
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