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What do they know?
It’s just those
same sad songs they sing.
It’s a habit, like lust
inside a human being.
The sun shines now, alright,
but not at all unlike
the way that it was bright
before. Just closer strikes.
Pants and shirts and ties,
like unproductive soap
that burns the bloodied eyes,
clean something. There’s no hope.
Is walking what we want?
God knows we’re racing cars
at heart. We just won’t jaunt.
Let’s speed like shooting stars.
What do they know? It’s just
instinctive sex. There is
no love. It’s just like lust
in life. It’s hers, it’s his.
Reproduction of “Morning Sickness”
COPYRIGHT 2000 by Michael Bonanno
LOC Reg. #TXu 934-647
or any part therein without
the express written consent
of Michael Bonanno, is
prohibited, except in “fair
use” cases
Home About Michael Poetry MICHAEL'S BOOK OF POETRY
(and some other assorted foolish verses)