The Ballad of Don and Dee

At 9 in line at The Dry Goat

Don, he heard these words from Dee:

“How many lives must it consume –

French pressed, small batch coffee?”

 

The faded denim of her shirt

Agreed with gentle breasts.

Don, helping synch her plastic lid,

Said, “More than one, I guess.”

 

She found a friend to feed her cats,

He, his clients to soothe.

A room well-shuttered they also found,

In a southern latitude.

 

Her flesh the years had not contained

A scar ran down his chest,

But curious lips and fingertips

With nectars soon were blessed.

 

An ocean nightly crashed the rocks,

Sun daily fired the beach.

Strong gods they played around that bed,

Where desire breathless breached.

 

Till Dee one morning sadly spoke,

Recalling “time” and “money.”

“I fear my river’s dry,” she said.

“My flower’s no more honey.”

 

“Dee,” said Don, lips curling down,

Thinking again of coffee,

“Could it be worse to here be found,

Felled by debauchery?”

 

But such are women, such are men,

And cats and clients and kids.

In sullen silence they packed and show-

Ered, their passions scrubbed, then hid.

 

Not quite toothbrushes, watercolor by William Eaton, June 2018They rejoined the line at The Goat,

Their winks less sly than paling.

Laptop to cell they said hello,

Genitals no longer availing.

 

— Poem and watercolors by William Eaton

 

With all due thanks to Coleridge and apologies to any and all employees of The Dry Goat. Must everything be sacrificed to art?



Categories: Poems (including Limericks), sex (more or less), Zed

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  1. Returning, remembering, regrets – montaigbakhtinian

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