and I always
keep a light on—like some
pushover dad
for his prodigal son—
waiting in distress
for the fleeting return
of my wanton,
self-willed
satisfaction.
And the second I catch it
staggering back:
I'm out there
over-zealously slitting
the fat throats
of calves
and chainsawing possessions
and bank accounts in half.
But no matter how
gently I bleat
my appeasements,
or tickle
its feet,
or sprinkle gold leaf
on every offered appetizer,
the last thing I see
at the end
of the night
is the apathetic light
from the small,
glowing cherry
of the Cuban cigar
it was happy
to lift from me
fading, like the plot
of a dream, as it
leaves.
