Bubba

Bubba

I am going to have a conversation

with la Edith Piaf; I am tired of living

out of neatly packed suitcases,

too many years looking over my shoulders

while I vanish into the space between

a couple of fig trees.

Once, comfort came walking in

like a careless lover.  He decorated my drink

with one of those a little umbrellas manufactured

in Thailand, shipped in giant crates from India,

and distributed to Mexico.  It’s not right to die

on the heat of a cowboy’s saddle.

When he left the family

picture on the grand piano dislocated. 

There was so much blood between us,

our lips were colored by sweat and

optical illusions on the bed.  
I miss that fucking bed.