poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Marilyn at Night

Poetry is
two fifty-six AM
in maroon boxers and an unshaven beard,
sliding ruffled sheets with anxious feet,
running an unguided hand across a cold nightstand.
A simple click.
Light wrinkles the face,
and instead of dreams and visions and metaphors,
I see only Marilyn,
caught within glass and frame,
cascading over that Chinchilla fur,
a time-frozen, freshly lit cigarette
between those long fingers,
an eternal award of instant gratification.
If only poetry was so forgiving.

12 Feb 07

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