All the Ends of Me
Each of the ends of me
are bruised
All those you fell upon
and used …
Even those
I once did thrust
And wield like some
demented lover must ..
Though sad
it now seems fair to say
No single end of me
is presently contusion free
So pray why
savour such an ache
on bended knee and yield
Oh’ so very swollen …
No less than naked
behind your flimsy shield
A tissue of lies to be spat
upon and yes, despised …
By ladies no less
and sailors and serfs n by lords
But not a single one of them
a poet though, thank gawd …