The Surrealist Ends an Affair
(for hks, who "gets" it every time )


Declan D. Blunderbus
dresses quite badly and stinks
of drugstore cologne.
His appeal
lies
in his complete lack
of appeal
and my own masochistic tendency to suffer
idiots.
"It's all in your head,"
says my mother.
"It's all in your head,"
says the priest.
They are right — it goes without saying, but I say it
to reinforce the positive affirmation.
They are right, and I am
weary
of conversations
with grey squirrels and cross
stitching
the Last Supper
for the barren wall
above Tante Cecile's sideboard.
Exorcise Declan,
drab olive Declan
of the staid and lack
lustre ties;
Aqua
velva
lime clings to the skeins of burnt umber
I'm using for Jesus'
hair.
The squirrel lobs a rotted chestnut at my head,
no doubt to shut me up, but the mote in my eye
deflects it quite nicely.
It shows me (without using its tail)
the Us in Blunder
bus
and the path I must walk to Salvation.


© Patricia Gomes 2004