She's married to the idea of loss.
I sit with my tongue waiting to savor
the depth of her beauty.
I will pay for a good thing,
just like the $0.25 most fast food
restaurants charge for extra sauce.
They know we'll want more.
Supply and demand . . .
Our culture thrives on greed
licking the last bits of this and that
for as long as we can.
We're motivated by the sound of
our sins — how loud can we be
in the face of God as we mock him?
Boisterous, manipulative Homo sapiens.
We think we know everything there
is to know about life
and we know nothing at all.
The curtain falls behind us.
We hide under the covers
shifting from one form to the next.
I'll be her grapevine in the middle
of a dirt road,
rumors spreading like wildfire.
She will come to me
before I ask after her.
That's her way.
She appears when I disappear.
Punctual but untimely . . .
I have gathered all my confessions
for the pastor to review.
On his pulpit, he'll stand
and applaud me for my efforts.
She'll take pictures.
Memories of my coming out.
I will tell her my life
isn't up for sale but if she's
humane, I'm willing to let
her spend time on me.
But she's married to the idea of loss . . .
And I'm already gone.
©2020 Tremaine L. Loadholt