To see the frog on top of the skull

Some things you leave for later
Others you check and ascertain
And do now, (I had that notion
once to step into a closet close
with her) while some just
Slip away without a chance.

So if talking with her dirty,
In verses, in pretty porn,
And in romantic meter and
(when you’re really
in the groove) rhyme
Doesn’t keep her
close to the orbit,
Then who can expect
that anyone else can.
Dispense this.

Since You
who are master of words…
(Ha! You laugh at yourself,
For furies and fates
Abound in corners
Waiting for a chance
To call your phone
And whisper danger)
… no you just hang
yourself out to dry
And wait for her attention
And return in measure
And that is enough.

For there’s War
Tragedy, and Death
Around each corner
And every encounter
A place for special
And pleasant rubbing
Of her against you.

And nothing else matters
But you and your words
And her and her words.
And that should be enough.

Until you and her meet the bus
That carries you and her
South and forwards
And in the mood and with the time
To see the frog on top of the skull.

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