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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome
(Saturday, April 18, 1999) Come Thursday next week,
it would be precisely six months
since I woke up in her room and
crashed out of the window.
The sun was high when I knocked
at her door and she took me
in her warm and willing arms.
But foolish me, I was enraptured in
a twenty-minute ride of passion with
her on the rug and I slept off soon
after our high noon roves until
her father's premature return from
work forced me to fly out of her window
like a bat out of hell.
I thought I was smart, but last week
the sun had scarcely knocked darkness
off the earth's face when she came spitting
and vomiting at my door.
She can't get into her jeans anymore and
she's learned to voraciously eat
weird things like toothpaste, camphor,
raw locust beans and wet earth.
But Lord, how could just a twenty-minute
round of mis-timed pleasure make me
a premature father?
© 1999, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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