LESSONS LEARNED

She had the word "Vacancy"
tattooed above her mons Venus
in a motel yellow,
the letters
strangely glowing.
A few of them were dimmed
by the passage of time
while others
were nearly invisible.
How many travelers
have stopped there?
I wondered.
And how many
were still missing?
But I was O so tired,
and needed a bed
for the evening,
maybe longer.
But this time
I'd packed light
and didn't have much
to carry
or unpack.
I gave her
my driver's license
and a credit card...
and waited.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

WHAT A SHAME

you love me
only from a distance.
Popping up
every so often
to feed
your being
by seeing
if I've fed
mine:
Either I love you
or no one; you exist
or forgotten; the poetry
itself matters
little.
But no matter.
I love
your love,
however warped
& twisted
it springs
from a tortuous sense
of self.
I do
however
abhor
the distance.
"Call me Ishmael,"
if you like.
My soul,
like his,
is damp
& drizzly
in my months
of constant November.
My exploration
of good
& evil
stops
with you.

You've digested
enough love
in your life.
The thought
of another
is nauseating.
Hell, indeed,
for you,
is other people.

I would give you
a wafer
& wine
instead, but that,
too, reeks
of flesh
& of that
you've eaten
your fill.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015