My Darling Critic
It’s always raining in your poems,
she said, applying her lipstick deftly.
It’s always night. There’s too much darkness.
I don’t know you anymore, she said,
checking herself in the mirror,
her perfume filling the room.
In one poem, you’re a pauper
and the next, a Sumerian king.
None of your poems ever rhyme,
she continued, slipping on her coat,
looking in the mirror one last time.
I’ll be back before midnight,
she assured me, and left me there,
the night dark, a cold rain falling,
my little suzerainty in ruins.
Author: Bruce McRae
0 Comments