Jeffrey Obomeghie Poems

Abraham walks into the theater
Leaning on his cane
The man who speaks the vernacular
Is hours from being slain
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January 15,2014
The day she died
I roamed the world magnificent
Grief strapped to my back
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Wake me when I am dead
Before they kick the sand in my face
Do not let me go into the good earth
To become feast for the maggot and his race
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Our marriage was a wounded animal that we dragged around for years
and tried to resuscitate with guilt and tears
unaware that the creature was dead
unaware that the rot filling our head
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Armed with resolve and coffee
Queuing for gas or taxi
Creatures of flesh and bone
Chase gold in temples of steel and stone
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Love is an immense battlefield
in which I have fought and lost many skirmishes
As all my ex-wives would tell you
We never quite figured out how to agree to disagree
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Drops of blood on a leaf
The sky wears a copper smile
No birds sing
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I have never written a love poem
I should probably write one
Every poet has one
Yeats, Elliott, Rexroth, and even that mad Russian whose name I can never remember
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The sky is the color of whisky
Dark like the palette of Beksiński
The trees are frozen in place like jilted brides
The water stares at you with blue eyes
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Modigliani covered with paint
Dangles over a chair like a broken saint
Wracked by fevers and strange imaginings
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