Mad Ithaca

by grimbeau


Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,

the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.

mauve tapering headland not faraway

Is darker; the treachery still indiscrete.

I trail past the quiet, dark caravan,

chest pounding with sorrow; tried to walk it

off but it don’t go – a woe-begotten

rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.

On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene

of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.

Thronging poached Grockles being obscene

Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream

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