Nestled
in coveted pre-war architecture,
a grotesque gargoyle
kingkongs my building.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Random clouds litter the sky,
as I pluck estranged words
from plunged drains
as rapidly as the deluge falls,
before they disappear
or drown.
But, somehow, the words escape my grasp.
I always believed, more than half-heartedly,
that poetry was meant to be swallowed raw,
on the half shell,
tasted with eyes closed or wide open,
since it was the fashionable thing to do,
despite perfect vision being impaired
by double entendre,
and when meaning eluded me,
I dissected
the abstract
until the words evaporated,
leaving both of us feeling used,
somewhat amused,
or perhaps traumatized,
possibly dispensing and despising each other
for the rest of eternity.
But the sky is littered with stars and moonlight,
and endless botoxed words,
where anger is a wasted moment.
Somehow,
we all relax and reconcile in the helix
spilling words over salty margaritas
and sour mojitos,
and poetically spend the rest of the night
laughing at gargoyles.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
