Christine

This is me being sad.
I have not had another
opportunity to speak with you.

Be careful what you wish for my friend.
She said, in that way
my mind must now eternally
reserve for
soccermom-dominatrix-deathinvestigators
from the dirty old south.

Wishes come true.
Just like the tale of rattled bones,
tea leaves, and the predictions
of tattooed gypsies
reading tarot cards
on Beale Street where I stumbled
after too many drinks.

Don't tell me you are surprised
by good luck, she said with a smile.

Maybe good luck really does come
in the person of a lonely,
bizarre and complicated person.
I am unique to you in your
high caste society,
that is unless you already know
a lot of soccermom-dominatrix-deathinvestigators.

This is the "About Christine" poem
that appeared on my list none too soon.
I may have cheated,
no one ever said I had to play fair.

Maybe I should have
waited until we went to bed
to steal your heart/soul/life.
Without me you claimed
to be feeling a little dry
in a few too many ways.

I stole you
to motivate me.
I'll write a poem about you,
and love you always,
or until the next time I fall for
a soccermom-dominatrix-deathinvestigator.

This is me being sad,
because I have not
had another opportunity
to speak with you.