A Thousand Lines Poem by John Dempsey

A thousand lines
written in a hotel room only to be crossed out
in stirrups
with the legs spread and the feel of
rubber gloves oh-so-clinical on the thighs ‘Like
he’s only cleaning my teeth.’ (you’ll never forget that,
and in your darker moments
your reflection
moves lips on its own to call you a murderer (I’ll always be sorry for that)) . A thousand lines
written at 40
miles an hour only to be forgotten
down some back road while swerving
to look at a fox (one hell of a
picturesque
scene the orange tail
fading
into the dew wet green bushes) . A thousand lines written in
blue eyes gathering beer cans
only to be lost
in the heat of some July argument. A thousand lines written in a night
gone too blue and a touch strange
with trumpets in each sip and just maybe
this should’ve been
a poem about cocaine.