After Love

I wore it for weeks,
like a habit of tassled silk.

The hunger was severe.

And the furious partings at dawn—
they played their part.

But now, by the long red barn,

an alphabet of sheep cannot
compose itself. Therefore

there will be no story tonight.

A sick, fake-metal tinge
ruined the wind,

the light went meek and hollow,

and it was your fault
the stupid, storm-crazed things

went wild. You are a lousy

shepherd.
After drinks and my cut of the meat,

I will sleep like a lion

on the esplanade.
                          My God,
you are a poor, poor shepherd.

Copyright © 2006 Ryan Fox All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission