by Mercedes Lawry
What’s less than profound,
stammer of heart, tick tock
of night, its ugly face.
What scares you, death
or the same thing going on.
Don’t bring up love -
lost or tossed or severed,
don’t give me those low moans.
Be ferocious
in what you give.
There’s nobody has an answer,
nobody whose old dog
won’t sleep all afternoon in the sun
while you try to figure
when it’s going to be
your turn.
