An automatic poem
always sits in the closet
and waits......while
the conversation burns.
If you (foolishly)
happen to open the door,
it will spring out,
bold and bluster, but quickly
it melts into submission
and the backdrop suspicion of walls.
Maybe it will slide out as a boat
in the night, drifting
without sound; leaving no trace,
weaving water and sky,
like the blue moon
of two thousand nine.
Likely it will stand
inflexible, inexcusable
blocking the path to the door;
a pile, an edifice,
a cairn stone marker
for your fear of alcohol,
and the apology
you owe planet Mars.
It could sprout albatross wings,
be a cheat thunderbird,
circling above the cliffs by the sea
while new winds are born howling
through rock, over wave,
and gray haired snowfalls
pine hush memory.
In the morning it may lounge,
a lost lover’s lash filtered gaze,
wishing you had knocked
that lurid merlot
across the perfect
table top failure to contain
your elbow percolator wit.
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