Your Taj Mahal

Your Taj Mahal Too many times you hoisted anchor there isn't time but you should thank her, for being such a goober for so long. You have made her life a Taj Mahal there she swims in waist deep indigo, she's reflected in the cesspools of your morning sun. An ivory tusk is what you're after, a monument to fun and laughter, she shaves your neck out on the street for fun, she's New Delhinese from head to toes, but you brought her to the Poconos, where your Taj Mahal outshines the morning sun. You talk about the plight of Gandhi most of the night and all day Sunday, and tell your friends about the things she's done, at her spinning wheel she worships you, but she's leaving in a week or two, if she told you now it wouldn't be much fun. She'll board a ship that's hoisting anchor and meet a poet or a banker, avoiding caste from where she once belonged, she'll remember you for making her one more monument to how things were, when your Taj Mahal was whiter than the sun. © ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet