Lillian

The past is past for all intents and purposes
like my hot Jewish girlfriend back in the Eighties,
girl from a windswept lobotomized Lubbock.

Out in the flat lands of West Texas
the spikes of sand sprout peanuts
in the throat of the horizon.

The moon is dusty to the touch
and crunchy with your breakfast tacos
if you pause to smell the roses.

The coffee palominos in the coffee pot
leaving a cow path up in the direction
of the once abandoned arroyo.
 
Oh,Lillian,you had such a finese
and wrote poetry that scuffed a mark
into the sawdust of the dance floor.

There hasn't been a sea to kill the fish
in tens of thousands of years
now the inland sea roars only from seashells.

It feels that long since I have loved you
missing the taste of your mouth and womanhood.
I thumb-tacked your God to the present to get even!