If you see me somewhere else, say,
within a poem as a clueless love
interest wearing a pair
of rumbling clouds as headphones
or in a painting as a monster
roaring for its children, please
listen to me now. I admit
sometimes I only listen
to my own storms, dark rain drops
and hissing bloody lightning.
And yes there is a monster stealing
beneath my eyes. He needs to see
his children after a rough winter
of hibernation, he tells me.
And I tell you now
that here I am a pineapple grenade
smoking and smoking at a jazz club
on leave, not wanting this set
to end, not wanting my pin
to be ripped out by the crown.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.