Sunday Morning (II, I)

Why should she give it up to him?
What is love if he can come only
in noisy fantasy and nightmare?
Her dolphins play in their waves
charismatic and whole while he
came to end all frolic and family
for some abstract community
of musty prayer and the comfort
of wet sackcloth and cold ashes.
He who lived within herself
washed up on a desert beach
her desserts shells for a shelf
her soul he saved in a bottle
labeled I am not to drink in
letters from a foreign field.

Malaises of the nightgown and wait
for the coffee in the well worn bed
and the matted habit of a real cat
up in her window seat dome room
coalesce to repeat the profane
reminder of ritual dismission.
She dreams not and moves awake
with the eye of the storm encircled
by each newfangled catastrophe
as wealth darkens among Malibu
lights across Santa Monica Bay.
Against a rude screen true bugs
intrude like the kitchen roaches
scattering from the sudden light.
The day is like El Porto happy
with friends and popular songs
until the coming of the cat poop
cup up the stairs all the way
from the sway of bread and beer.

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