THANKS---GIVING

The Betty Poems

My girl
is up high;
my balls sag
around my ankles--
bugs can play
ping-pong with em
for all the good
they're doin me
now, although
my boss loves
to squeeze em
too; he's known
for that: more sadistic
as our pain threshold
increases. Things
have just worked out
that way.
What should have been
gone through
early
has been saved
for later
waiting
patiently
while I dreamt
of escapes
and believed
I fooled em.

Still,
I would not trade
those murdered hours
for a punch card,
would not sacrifice
a martyred minute
for placemats,
silverware,
drapes or
throw pillows.
I know how stupid
that sounds, how
unreasonable,
and how it strips
self-pity from the bone.
But I've never desired
to fuck a Puritan;
never was attracted to bonnets,
and manners, and God
knows what else
inside the layers
of lace.
I've never known honesty
except my own kind,
skewered, I know,
made up, I admit,
second by second
in a loving embrace
with those less mad
or a touch madder.
Perhaps,
I simply
could do
nothing
else
given
the starting
gate?

Yet,
it all led
to the girl
up high
north
of the border
and whether
I will still
be grateful
next year around
this time
is not
for me to know. But
I do say thanks
to her now
for giving me
a reason
to say
thanks
today.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013