A Kind of Burial

Now she was free both to triumph and to mock.
Some of his books were advertised as collections.
He didn’t feel that he actually had to write a book.
 
For the moment, she hung suspended.
Its frame-breaking psychodrama challenged the convention,
But his cri de coeur wasn’t really meant to be heard.
 
She sent it to the committee for approval, as usual.
But he was not deterred. It was a kind of burial.
He felt the sudden pulsing of an odd circuitry in her shoulders.
 
Everywhere there were placards and inscriptions.
Sometimes it devolved into street fighting.
Then there was the problem of the autonomous regions.
 
She led him to the confines of the third floor,
Even though it could easily be misconstrued.
He gestured toward a slender scapula and asked her opinion.
 
There was the analysis and then there were the analysts.
It was a little thicker than water, but not much.
They drank, as the protests outside grew.
 
He disliked the notion of fulfilling one’s potential.
His accomplished and good-looking companion
Did pretty much any damned thing she pleased.

 

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