The Chase!

Like Saint John of the Cross,

I chased him through the Burrough

that mahogany night,

all the prayers heard from open windows

on this godforsaken street,

and I almost collapsed

but spirited forward (Yes, I did!)

until I reached his motel room.

.

I smelled the shut, pheromoning

door and held the locked knob,

deadening me at first then

stoning, jonesing, filling me

with the untold story (Wouldn’t you like to know?)

of reaching that half of my soul,

so thirsty for the salt of his ribs

the milk of his tears,

so eager to read again

the Proverbs tattooed on his arms.

.

I couldn’t knock (Can you blame me?)

but crouched down on the doormat

and wept (He’d never let me in!)

then the strumming of a guiltless guitar

filtered through and put me to sleep.

(Sweet dreams to me!)

.

But I awoke in an alley

under a single lamppost,

my pelvis broken,

and Purgatory denied me my wings

for not going back (How could I?).

Fallen, I covered myself with

scattered leaves and plotted

my return.

(Oh, glorious Will!)

.

Martin Luther, scribe a note for his

door, please.

Let him know I was there (I was there!).

At least I was There.