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Hornbeck - To My Disappointment
I know I see you, Hornbeck- you never leave the corner where you glare - yet, clear as day I heard
the creak of boards. Where are your hands, Hornbeck? You stifle them in allspice-scented linings - in pockets
filled with coffin-balls and nutmeg shavings. Stil - I am unreal to you, even as I entertain your weaknesses,
Hornbeck- the ordinary pleasures of the naked dead. Who is your Mister there (Not shy, we’re understood)?
Hornbeck, it is, I answer - without his fawning Missus, minus their tiresome brood. Your charm, Hornbeck, is hoary frost on air. Unintelligible stains on crumpled paper - Tell me you care! Not a man, Hornbeck,
if you were a bird you would be a grosbeak - plain, puce, earth-bound, silent as a turd.
© 2020 Karen Morris Poet