To An Old Poet

Like a mutated, noxious spider,

perched in the center of a tattered web

of your own inaccurate weaving,

you flex your octave of articulated legs,

toxic venom dripping from your fangs.

You wait, anxiously, for another vital moment,

from which you can suck all of the life force,

leaving only a dessicated carcass

added to the collection that litters your web.




Ironically, you provide

to Lady Comfort one uncontestable

reason to put on shoes---

cork, platform sandals

with the slenderest of straps

over her stockinged feet

(dark tan stockings

with reinforced toes---

defiance of fashion magazines' dictates,

a bonus from this process).

Your littleness cannot diminish her stature

(Rubens' name comes even to your vexated mind);

your jagged lines cannot diminish her curves.

Just after the sun has entered morning,

she crushes you out of the garden of poems;

then kicks the sandals off and far from her,

so that she can frolic on the still wet grass,

as the last dew gathers to kiss her stockinged feet.



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