MiPo Poetry Board Best of 2002

The Weather Outside
is Frightful
(12 Word Challenge)

Congruent to your personality, Torpedo Bombers
were locked tight in ringlets of your hair. You never let them
go, not even to pound Shelly’s obvious target spider web
tattoo. We both knew she was breakable, her pottery
temporary. To me, the ceramics of her mouth on yours
was Pompeii. Even with you looming over her, lava
charger whistling Dixie till that slut was in your bed.

You hung yourself like Gary Cooper, One Sunday Afternoon.
She fucked Scott, who looks like Jack Nicholson in red light
almost as soon as you filled the earth up with your body.
(I guess I’d expect this from Pin-Ups with tomato hearts.)

Your rope still hovers around my neck, a kohl
underscore of sooty devastation not cowardly
dangled over used bedding. Your corpse
is curved tight Alaskan Fairbanks with shifty Sausilito
currents in its grave turning meteorology, I bet.