John-Ward Leighton

SCREAM

Between the dreams
the sirens pass on the street and with screams
to be with some 1a.m. tragedy
or some crime or black comedy.

Passing other poets’ voices
mixed with voices of my own
soldiers’ voices, prairie voices,
Miles muted horn voices, so many choices.

A thought for a taste, a coffee, hit
to assuage my caffeine addiction
but the acid taste in my mouth was having none of it
you must forgo the Joe if back to sleep you want to go.

In the half light between the siren screams
Her hairy eye could be seen
and in my savage thrusting poke
no matter how hard I pounded it never broke.

Then one night when the four second reward eluded me
and the howling in my ear seemed like so much work.
To see that twisted smile, that moaning orgasmic smirk
hardy seem worth the sweaty work.

I don’t go there anymore
and miss not her hair in the sinks
or tippy toe past her opinion
when I don’t really care what she thinks.

Now I can say what I mean
and my silence says more to the argument
of where to have dinner or what to wear for Lent
and I no longer worry where the wild goose went.

How did I get here at this ungodly hour
half in a dream with an imaginary whore?
What was my dreamlike state
that sought to warn me of my fate?

On tables piled with paper
my pen roams across the graded page
and merely records my fears
and the defensive rage.

My fm headphone plays the songs of Miles
so the neighbours cannot hear
and all my blinds are down
so the neighbours cannot see.

Why does your back itch only where you cannot scratch?
Perhaps that’s why we need a woman to do that chore
but the rest comes with it
and that’s the catch.

Just drifted off back into the stream
and almost caught up with the dream
when past my window yet another siren
passed in full scream.