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That was the year of hotel rooms Bad judgment, some salesman with a model contract In Prince George And I was all about irony: a mini-skirt Hair like a veil, but my home was the library My home was the library, not a cheap bedspread and Some guy with a moustache saying, My wife can’t understand me I had only been curious In the dark, the yellow bedside lamp Was damp and furious: my mini-skirt fell off And the Vietnam vet in the next room cried: Don’t worry We don’t carve up chicks Personally God said—it was God’s voice on the radio—in the guise of My school friend, Tom—a DJ— God or Tom—said on the radio: Please call So I leapt up, all reasonable and not confrontational Not at all stoned, and I phoned Dear Tom, wherever you are I’m telling you now Then I ran down the hall. The policeman who stopped Me driving said I’d been going too slow. Oh There was also the year of the knife, the year of the gun The year when God’s voice whispered, again and again What are you trying to do Kill yourself? But this was the year of hotel rooms When I looked into corners nobody swept and felt Their pull; when I wore my hair like a pall And didn’t know how lovely I was at all
Comments (2)
Comment FeedMy kind of year... and poem
Clarisse Baleja more than 9 years ago
Stopped by to clean yr windows once......
Thomas more than 9 years ago