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Hornbeck by John Tomlinson  2015

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Hornbeck -  To My Disappointment


I know I see you, Hornbeck- you never leave the corner where you glare -  yet, clear as day I heard


the creak of boards. Where are your hands, Hornbeck? You stifle them in allspice-scented linings -  in pockets


filled with coffin-balls and nutmeg shavings. Stil -  I am unreal to you, even as I entertain your weaknesses,


Hornbeck- the ordinary pleasures of the naked dead. Who is your Mister there (Not shy, we’re understood)?


Hornbeck, it is, I answer -  without his fawning Missus, minus their tiresome brood. Your charm, Hornbeck, is hoary frost on air. Unintelligible stains on crumpled paper -  Tell me you care!  Not a man, Hornbeck,


if you were a bird you would be a grosbeak - plain, puce, earth-bound, silent as a turd.


© 2020 Karen Morris Poet

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