My dear set Wenesday . . .
how long has it been.
Crush your lovely breast
against my past. Steam the iron.
Fuzz the gash. Open to the flowers
of the night. Your children they all wait
for you.
I miss ya Wendy.
Remember the old days? Shore you do.
The times by the lake. The waters
of your breath. As you lie
upon the infinite linens of my old hospital bed.
Your children they wait for you . . .
Remember me Wendy?
Do you receive secret e-mail from your ex-lovers
begging you to return to the old gardens of youth.
Remember the waves upon the musty waters?
Are you like that proverbial challis filled with the blood of The Christ?
You didn’t read at the spider
during the H. Fair. All the children waiting with baited breath . . .
dying to hear about your storage attic of the past.
As The Official Rep. of last saturday evening poetry
I am condemned to ask of you the truth.
To look you into your private stash and wonder . . .
are you still as
fervently dedicated toward the writing
and especially reading publicly the wet
words from your frozen tongue?
Standing in the lit late night doorway of your heart
like you did when you were young. Blessed be
thou breast upon your sleeping shore.
I have graduated
and finally finished off the infamous 6 credits I so dearly
(They are going to mail
me my diploma.
A mail order diploma?)
Oh bless your soul, wendy. How’s your
blog sweetheart? What is a blog?
Words are in fact labor . . . love
your friend . . . Pete
Peter Leon
