The Night The Gargoyles Sang
It was in the first half of my life
when I was busy bleeding, that
the Princess gave me a frozen brussels sprout
at the state dinner and told me
to warm it for her.
I took it to the tech desk for
some heat, but it only melted
vanilla, into double dips
dripping out cyber chocolate chips
soft and sloppy on the spreadsheets.
I ran into the lonely west wing,
haunted by the Headless Bride
where the gargoyles came inside
out of the rain, to explain, but their
song was a stone in a rowboat to me
and I took their place on the roof, still hungry.
At around about this time I came
to the second half of my life
and was listening to you tell me
that things had gotten out of hand
since you'd been gone. I couldn't help
but notice you'd burned your eyebrows off
or the katydids you'd put in your waistcoat
pocket, hopping flamingo pink.
I paid no attention, opened the cage
and let all the muskrats out. Or,
they might have been guinea pigs;
it was a difficult dream
to pin down.
Image: Lupo [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons