On the folly of writing about dead people
An exercise in couplets;
I’m moon walking, sleep walking, only halfway here;
The accents from another time are dinning in my ear.
My fingers tap the iambs, I’m counting ‘neath my breath,
Horns honk in the intersection, scare me half to death;
“C’mon, bitch, it’s two-ohoh five, not three hundred years before!”
But the century is forgotten again, once I’m in the door.
As the last light limns the pages of my newly purchased book,
The sound of ghostly laughter makes me take a look-
The spirit of youth and arrogance makes a mocking bow,
Saying “Do you like me? Do you like me even now?”
(the book is “The Debt To pleasure” and I don’t have it in my hands yet- waiting for that smiling package to arrive!)
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