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,
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.
Poetry: Barley There