Third Wheel Blues
Cockatrices in the bedroom!
I told you that shit had to stop,
no more calling animals in
when your surfaces elude the mind.
Some stars streak across the sky
delivering bootylicious nuggets
of light from years and years ago.
I bet they saw the Stones in Boston.
That night Keith shot up onstage,
and they played Sister Morphine
three times before anyone noticed.
I fell in love with you late on an Aerosmith
tour when Skid Row opened and Sebastian Bach
challenged us all to smoke a little Mother Nature.
Now you've broken the hymen of our time
together with a strong hand and a rubber glove
I feel as if I could unsay all those negatives and
you would jump on my back for another ride,
rolling our trousers and walking through the muck
of the Duck Pond in the Common at three am
when no one but homeless people are out
and you feel free to crack jokes about the Dead Pool.
It's a safe bet I still love you and the way the fine
hairs on your arm still rise when I enter a room
might give me the impression some bone-jumping
is in order but your period came four hours ago
and I am a hot mess pleading for attention in a poem.
Please don't make me beg; I love those bacon dog treat
commercials. They remind me of you and I, the way I beg
and you, well, you know what you do. The sun is rising
like a pillow from a removed head. The new day promises
lots of things but sadly, I've found in this poem that despite
all the things I've said to re-woo you, they're nothing
when compared with the love you no longer have for me.
I'll cart up my laptop now and my silly dreams and fly
into the east. That means I'll follow the sun, yes,
and never forget you or your penchant for tiny dogs.