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Poem: The Spill (2)
This one was titled "Montgomery's Dishes" before I thought of a better title for it. It's a bit wordier than the last, and I'm not sure whether the dirt that's seeped into the poem somehow betters it or does it a disservice. Ah well...I'll be fiddling with it more tonight. More versions of all three poems will go up tomorrow morning, and then one last revision before they go off to Poesia for the BIG PHAT POETRY CONTEST.
The other two poems are here and here.
*****
The Spill
Montgomery's in a bad way.
For thirty years now,
pouring himself into the woman
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all these years,
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself out a big hole,
a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all confused because he's got no place
to pour himself--
even if the old woman was what she was,
at least he had some place to go.
The other two poems are here and here.
*****
The Spill
Montgomery's in a bad way.
For thirty years now,
pouring himself into the woman
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all these years,
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself out a big hole,
a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all confused because he's got no place
to pour himself--
even if the old woman was what she was,
at least he had some place to go.