Downloading the Meltdown

Rumple of clouds at sunset, low and pink,
Underbelly of heaven in the summer slack, and me

Depressed as a backdoor detective on a case of slow clues.
I'm never lonely as long as I have my own body

To interrogate, my mind with its whips and pincers.
I buckle at the slightest threat; I confess

In the high pure pang of a choirboy singing
At some ceremonious occasion for the faint of heart.

And now the hot night, the moon cool as a bishop
In a boudoir. What you can't get over,

You must get past. Through a haze of smoke and rum,
What's left of me squints at the odds and ends.

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Copyright © 2011 Elton Glaser All rights reserved
from New Ohio Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission