The Emotional Orphan

The sting is realization -
That all you do is bring the mail,
And empty packages,
While someone else delivers.

It must be overwhelming.
It leaves you only with bills and junk mail

A wrong step in the wrong direction
Could make a dog named Narcissus bite your leg.
Ripping your ego to shreds.

Perhaps a bottle or two of Absinthe,
Or a flower called belladonna
Would make you feel much better.

I know I would.

Seek out ultimate sin in Sinless City.
Or go away quietly.
There is nothing left for you
Where the flat-lands meet the mountains.

It’s too far off your route to deliver there.
You’d have to do it alone – with yourself.
There is a warehouse full of pages
About how you’d feel about that.

You bought it, now pay for it.

And drink up, knowing
No teenage Chicanos are allowed in Paris.
No Jaguars in Vegas, No Cougars in Mormon town.

No one home when you deliver
The next package of words,
From the Lie of the month club.

You less than kindly
Asked them to leave,
Believing they’d come crawling back.
You imagined the Texas one really cared
With no commitment.

Secretly, you cried while
Your last chance turned to dust
On furniture behind her locked door.

Why fret?

There was one before the other,
Before the other,
And one before that.

The two or three you imagine?
At least they will always be there.
How sad.

Tell Mommy we all said hello.
Whisper it in her ear while she sleeps.
After.

The dog Narcissus chews the heart
Of the Postman again for lunch.
One too many false moves.

Perhaps a bottle or two of Absinthe,
And a flower called poppy
Would make you feel much better.

Seek out ultimate sin in Sinless City.
Ah, sweet relief after flowers.

Who wants to be around
someone like you?
I’m tired of hearing you talk about it.

Just do it.

Seek out the ultimate sin.

(note…A new take on a true old false story…fiction of sorts)