A BLUE LADY
You’re a blue lady.
Your body is blue,
cold to the touch.
You come at night
through a locked window
on black wings
to remind me
that I am nothing,
that my love is lost,
that my hope has evaporated,
that my mother is dead
and I will still be here
when the sun comes up.
You’re a blue lady.
You come to me each night
to remind me
of all the things
better left
unreminded.
Your blue hands still me
like fingers on a clock face.
You’re a blue lady.
You come to me at night.
You will keep coming
until there is nothing left
to come to.
THE JOKE
the joke is that
those that do good deeds
do it out of habit or duty
and nothing else
and if the reward of
some kind of heaven
comes to them
they won’t expect it
but they’ll take it
as the rest of us
wallow in the mud of ourselves
waiting for the flames
and that is just
and as it should be
but I’m livid about it
even as I burn
THE SKY IS LOOSE
The sky is loose
and the syllables bound the page
like spotted jackrabbits.
My mind is devoured by memories of you
and thoughts of her smile
and the two angels in their heavenly little beds
just beyond these fallen words.
This gives the night meaning
and suppresses the unholy rage
like a lion tamer’s gruff confident command.
It doesn’t matter that I am fat
and ugly,
swelled by fate,
battered by indecision,
hanging on to half a famished soul,
begging for quarters in purgatory.
Controlled by wicked masters.
Alone and unknown
on a Friday night.
It doesn’t matter
until I succumb to the fragility of the night
and lie in bed beside my nemesis
as the glorious night is slain,
without ceremony,
by the sun.
John Tustin is the divorced father of two perfect children. He graduated from nowhere, teaches nothing, and has no awards. Fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is a link to his poetry online.
