Dear Starfish:
Am I furthest realm of what you call "Heaven-sent?"
I'm a penny-proprietor that repents in back alleys of churches
'cos the newsman says that the mosque is a mask
and my father is a godless synagogue-cynic these days.
I confess my sins to the backlit stars on the inky horizon,
but you're the best I can get when you lie half dead
next to my bare feet on the crunchy, sand terrain;
or I look to the open Bud Light bottle caps,
taking advice from the illegible letters on the rim
as if my diluted brain could provide happiness if I
double my bets, set a flirtatious grin on the green, felt table,
and dance with the first man who buys me a drink.
But, I confess, I still sleep alone, wrapped in starchy, scarlet sheets
that reek of green-tea perfume and disembodied memories,
hoping that if I squeeze my eyes tightly enough, they all return to me.
It's a suburban, uncultured, east coast tragedy:
empty substance, a hole in the pit of my stomach
where the acids and needs and emotions leak through
into my ironic, iron-laden bloodstream
like sporadic bursts of tears and shame.
So Starfish, can you regenerate a heart for me?
I left it at the train station for a man
with two tickets to a concert hall and two discreet intentions:
unwashed blue jeans strewn on his bedroom floor
and our shared, gossiping friends who won't speak to me anymore.
And Starfish, as your bed lies among shipwrecks on the ocean floor,
mine lies as a steeple, or on second thought, a wooden casket,
'cos I'll be buried in this sinking, feather mattress
and covered in dried, crimson rose petals
on the day that I'm lucky enough to leave the luster of the loveless behind.