The Blanched Almonds of Hoboken
The pool beneath the breakfast hall
Where we were wont to meet
Is gone, yet still in dreams I swim
As flippers on your feet
Or, sometimes, as your bathing trunks
Whose fit is snugly taut
I nestle in your duffel-bag
And hope I won't get caught
The net that snares the butterfly
The trap that snares the rabbit
Cannot compare with your allure
Obsession is a habit
Your scent is trapped within my sleeve
Your voice echoes in my head
I dream that I am with you still
So still beneath your bed
Or, perhaps, like your flippy-flops
Oft jammed between your toes
Unwary, like Elastoplast
Stuck right across your nose
I linger in the ether
Somewhat like ectoplasm
A seething mass of insecure
I languish in a spasm
Contributors: | Lou Beck, Chevalier, F, Kansas Sam, Tall Whoopie, SN, Barrymore's Ghost, Anon., Cocoa Channel, asdf, loaf, ether. |
Poem finished: | 8th September 2006 by F. |