Choisir Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She felt his hand,
the hand that had
the previous night
caressed that wife,
who, undeserving, smiles
and wallows in her lust.
It is the bloody money,
needless to say,
the bitch is cold as stone
I see her eyes, ice-blue
dead cinders, fuzzy strands
of useless gristle,
no flames, nor spark
just greed, opaque and still,
and here I am, the one who must
but cannot stay,
whom he called Honey
makes demands
a jolly whistle
transcends the dark
the telephone - 'it is for you, '
'oh, yes I will,
would give my life
would wait for you,
is this your hand
'oh, please, no light, '
I shall be sad
and then go mad.