poetry

gossamer in the crown

Leave me to live on your ceiling and, between us, well enough alone.

Of curses, calluses and diligent craft,
        Your cozy corner was squared and coped;
            Strung you are in void of draft
    Among that adornment of scroll-work sloped,
        Hassle-fitted, slow-hand-hewn;
        Anchored in the first fillet
    And swaylessly to the height of moulded cap,
            Just beneath your cyma-recta roof,
        You hung so daintily a delicate deathtrap—
Spun such an oddest, spartanly modest, hubris-mummifying home.

A creature hidden in the comfort as proof
        Friends are over for dinner just once;
            Rare they are who fly aloof,
    But you’re an opportunist for gone-wrong stunts.
        And, for that, I’m in-factly thankful:
        I hate the fly, loathe the gnat
    And would swat a lion for a mosquito,
            Take to swinging a Louisville bat
        At any sting beyond my gimp aikido—
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, maybe-so it then.

As I you, leave me to live on your ceiling
        And, between us, well enough alone.
            If you mirror the feeling,
    Neither of us need unass our throne;
        We earned it in work and it owes us rest.
        I won’t ask you to come down
    If you won’t ask me to broom with bristles up;
            Your gossamer can reign in my crown
        If you’ll not sip my dreams from your silken cup—
Left you are to lord overhead; left am I to better make my bed.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Barley There
        https://windstrewn.com/2017/08/11/barely-there/


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