MY LITTLE BABY

The Betty Poems

started work yesterday
after being holed-up
in bed
in a fetal position
sucking on a bottle
for the past year.
She's smart,
beautiful,
and crazy--
much like
the best fucks are.
It seems
I attract
those kinds.
I've lived
an interesting life.

I wanted to call her,
see how it went,
congratulate
her courage,
a moment of triumph
in a world of defeats
for even getting out of bed
after fifty-two years
of kicking the shit
out of herself
and other enemies.
But I didn't.
I know
that most of us
need a lover--
more than a family
more than a friend
more than a god
--to do that.
She'd never ask,
and I'd never offer.
We'd just had a fight--
one of many--
fuck you
fuck you
and fuck you.
Each of us
too proud
and stupid
and determined
to protect
our acre
of hell.

Love
and hate
are mad hot;
they crackle
across the space
of two pillows
or through those merciless wires
and immediate ether world
of space between Toronto
and New York City
as close
as breath;
once evidence
is gathered
it bludgeons
the best
of us.

Living
is so very difficult
and loving
through the forests
of deception and pain
so impossibly
important.
I've yet
to learn
how.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013