Mebane Robertson

Mary Morrison

I saw the bright type they drew collapse. My woman was in my lap.
We were caught up in some talk, & she wanted me to tap something back
Out of the icy white corner I had set us in. You and I have no right—

Dancing on a night like this—to view the pictures of where we were
At evening, planting the seed money in a start up dream florist where a certain
Agent Cancer has been plotting for us that we would pull through

These madcap tremorous times. Quit picking at that. I keep telling you. Our voices
Aren’t aimed to really hurt in the sting sense, just melt away the day
Like a Placidyl pinpricked in juice. And knock off the strip bar on Hudson, I say

To myself. It’s mischief for the youth in their brilliant clans to puzzle out,
And parrot, parrot, we all get lost in this frazzling, finding our magic numbers
Preening, graffiti the Major has patched in our dream catcher web to post on a site.

Roger that, my brother. Roger, Roger that. O don’t go back into sticky
Gasoline splash downs. If it weren’t such a constant hangnail flown off to the Hague.
The dude’s a freak: last night he was licking grenadine off your foot—

I know, yes, he was just playing—but for real. I think it’s sublimated perversion.
And his aunt’s an old navigator for the ship they flew to get them from here to there.
I’d like to kick these white walls in, Lass, if only they’d stay still.

Mebane Robertson graduated from The College of William and Mary and is now finishing a PhD dissertation at Fordham University. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is always on the hunt.
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