I crawl through the extremities of a cubby hole
Sheltered through the cracks of a lonely shelter
Repeating myself through the stark crevices
A story to be told over baseless tea.
Watching the Catholics watching
The prim waitresses milling about
An insult overheard, though, blank to offers
Of salvation through works, cussing the wasters.
Buttonholing the professors, slick with complements
The plagiaristic soul skims the laptop
Scans his grievance to the highest bidder,
Probably chuckling at his desk in his office
Ghosts remain in their territory. All I know
Is he didn’t vacate this earth soon enough
An exile from propriety, offering my honour
The orgasmic grail never settling matters.
Enough money to eat and drink
Some satellite watching eats at your soul
A limiting barcode sends you to hell
All your persuasions burning in your brain.
I sit in the cubby hole, darkened, safe
Until what’s over with comes around again
Never loving you, in stead of research
I crawl out again, wiser and better.
– Patricia Walsh