Poem for Women who Forget

Ardour, scurries through homes
Where nights have been filled with warmth
To lick the lace of laughter from the walls
He scratches the fence on the porch
And writes poems,with broken fingernails
He’s hungry,like a man out of time
He wiggles out sighs from his twisted limbs
As he writes where the bones are hid
Of many pasts he has lived
His hunger for poems
Twists and turns him
Chews through him
Like a dog with a bone
With no direction home
Words drip out, from his lips
And breast
Like a sheared pound of beef
Left to rest
In his poems for Irene,
He confronts his love for her,
Like a living Chinese fingertrap
His torment sears through his fingertips
As they come to the surface of his poems
Words boiling over with anger and bubbling all the way through
Sold for a bargain,just to pay for some whores
jittered through the fourth avenue,in late November
with broken jaws,and bloated suffering that hangs on their lonely breasts
Suffering that only made sense to Ardour
Someday,he will meet her out there
Lonely and frightened
Like an abandoned Jew’s harp
Like all things, god gave us,but forgot to name
Like all idylls of the kings
And the features on his face
Will blur with age
He will meet her