Dream Of Love Poem by Tom Hamilton

At the last seat in town,
 snug behind the three,2,2,2 desk
 in a bedeviled, rancid, glazed factory
 sits a girl.

 And she's
 losing to darkness by minutes.
 Wheels on her chair back and forth towards death,
 a gurney more so than a rumble seat.

 And her hair is combed and scented so
 it has the pride of designs like honeycombs.
 And it pours and redoubles and curls on her shoulders
 as thick as syrup.

 And the dainty shoes which stirrup her feet.
 And her tapered arms are too good for laundry.
 Feathers, filth or decrepit foundries.
 And as much as anyone
 I love her.

 And I'd like to meet her but I already....

 Have you been outside today?
 The air doesn't have any weight.
 And the breeze still tolerates the dew.
 Till' the Sun can escape the embrace of the dinginess                  Well,
 at least until a rusting hinge
 turns again in shadow.

 Like these flowers which bloom in my head.
 budding, but forcing mud inward.
 I don't say the words, I don't say the words.
 I but water them in Whisky.
 Until they grow out my mouth, the color of vomit,
 spat into an old
 cracked pot.