It’s growing cobwebs, my love
my love for you,
tucked away on the stiff
white shelf, of which
there are three,
and on the highest one
is where I shall be
gathering dust
and starting to grow
old, grossly stale.

Lotus eater, lotus eater,
happy with your fruit
sweeter
than breakfast on
Christmas morning –
when will you come home
darling?
Has your funny diet
made you forget
those reciprocal duties?

Far away, your Penelope
sits weeping in her misery,
weaving and unweaving.
Don’t you remember
the laughter, rising up
like some unlikely symphony
from dissonance to harmony,
the philharmonic ecstasy?
In Ithaca the winds are strong
and blow back what here belongs.

Lord of lies
so close to the truth
it becomes nearly funny.
Where is my place
in this divine comedy?
This casual tragedy
opens the door for me,
candor washes over me –

Even if you did come home,
you would only long to leave again.