Machinist
He once had black curls
like the ones he drills
out of the tool steel, that fall
like Samson’s glory shining on the floor
he cuts thru the flat stock
watching the pattern emerge ordained
by software that contains all he needs
to know of the design of his days,
he’s a water-cooled, diamond blade
obeying the directions while dreaming
of precise shape of the escape
he delayed till he could make a few bucks
then go on the road and play his soul
But there are bills to pay, and he is covered
in steel dust, iron filings under his nails,
and his fist is full of dust,
that he thinks might make a diamond
if he just squeezed hard enough.
The lions sleep tonite
My calico hisses
her jealous displeasure
at the high white tabby
interloper that reclines
on the other side of the great divide
that is my body, at least for tonight
the shadow of my hips lifts and separates
the enemies that lie down warily
announcing firm borders that are
the foundation of peace in our time
allowing for the cleavage of love