. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

When You Came to the Door You Wore Only a Blanket

Be careful how you answer the door... I might make poetry out of the encounter...

When you came to the door you wore only a blanket,
Loosely wrapped around your shoulders,
Grinning and naked beneath that thin purple fabric,
Playfully arresting me with your dark eyes,
Your tiny knuckles clutching at the seams,
A periwinkle layer of cloth,
A translucent layer of girl skin,

But our lives had been rearranged by the circumstances of the heart,
A thing broken and reformed into new shape,
And where once I belonged in that blanket with you,
I no longer had any right,
Perhaps I could have taken what I wanted,
For there was an invitation on the wind,
It blew through your disheveled hair,
Disturbed the edges of your purple blanket,
I felt it on the ends of my fingertips still attached to the door knob,
And along the lost avenues of my heart,
To be the scoundrel that you loathed,
And the scoundrel that you loved,

In the end
I left you standing there,
Amongst everything misplaced between us,
And closed the door,
I remember how you looked…
Wrapped warmly and naked and so very close.


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