Disconnected

your face hovers
over my face our
noses touch
yet there is no
trace of skin
to prove that you
have been
here within my
living body breathing -

leaving with your looks
and your ambition
packed in a suitcase
light enough to lift both in.
moving on.
now one 'phone call
down the line
of a two-year:
'How are you then; what's

happening man?'
sad and old, looks
gone, distilled into
weariness and pub
lunches, a haunch of
shoulder and gut a
stag would be
proud of - skin fattened on
bad bone

alone again, naturally -
too much money makes you
suspicious of all blondes who
may be gorgeous gold-
diggers in disguise - he
told me that - the larger
the bank balance the
more one's trustiness
depletes

where does truth lie
in that suit? your chances are
many times greater than
they deserve to be, your
Marley chains weigh you
down though you
can't see them like I do -
one small secretary wasn't
enough for you, you

had to do them all, tie them
up in silk handkerchiefs and
bonbons like so many
chocolates to be 
eaten one by one - monster
munching man disguised
as an Executive in a
clean suit of clothes
smelling of roses

Eau-de-Cologne  .D..E. Parisienne .D..E.  couldn't
cover that sewer, muck-
raker, the 'phone is
disconnected these days your
mobile ways are entirely
your own and welcome to them
and what they bring:
disease and sorrowing poor
soul digging your own grave

previous poem