Jupiter

I've been waiting for you.
Typical.
You were a wind-up toy,
diabolical indigestion.
A sore
I picked at until a sad brown scab
fell to the floor.
My mirror
for a moment, reflecting
crisp cool weathered face
and sunset smile.
Now you are a disgrace
to my dignity.
You'd pull up a chair to any plate,
this horn aplenty.
Your whores could wait.
I hate that word, whore, the way
it lulls, fat flab of menopausal women.
Stinking under the arms,
trying to shine
or burn.

I've been waiting for you,
a rabbit's foot.
You were ten dozen men tucked
into one small corner of the world.
A diorama
of my life, the little pieces
representing
a girl, a chair, blue skies.
But I am awake now.
I no longer wait because
seeing is believing

and I can see
you.
Where you are
is nowhere I want to be.