Saint of Perpetual Sorrow

Call me a spent orange in the dirt, a primer-gray birdhouse in the tree
          or a new world thesaurus but not over the telephone.
Call me a nearly empty water glass, a ceramic kitten toppled on the sill
          or call me a sad and broken man but do not call tonight.
Call me a celebration of new democracy, a vest of explosives beside you
          or the state of the union address, marked return to sender.
Call me an unfinished word puzzle, a dull pencil or doldrums
          but do not call to lure me from the tar.
Call me a despot having gone too fast, a sickly poinsettia in the sink
          or a failed plan for two but no, not etc.
Call me a conduit for perpetual sorrow, an ill mannered house finch
          or pruned rosebushes beneath an empty birdfeeder.
Call me an empirical fault, call me tomorrow or don't bother using
          words to say, don't from the other end just breathe.

Copyright © 2007 James Meetze All rights reserved
from Conduit
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission