Outcast
In the glove compartment of my life
She was my map when I was lost
and the warmth to cover my hands.
Her only importance was expediency.
She was a refugee, mourning the pogrom
from her homeward-facing porch
but her backslide dialogue gave her away
and she became the brunt of my exploitation.
Her desires turned like a windmill-generator.
She was the direct current that attracted all of my static
and a lightning rod for my accusations
a battery storage for my invectives.
She was the least bittern on a wild-goose chase
the implausible pursuer of the impossible
a bewildered, bewitched, and can’t-be-bothered nester.
She was the little bird who told me it would work out.
And so, with the wisdom of a folk singer
on a crusade for world unity
she became the piper to my rat-like heart…
and it followed her to destruction..