Lisa

Lisa’s getting needy.

She’s so fragile like the beads

left hanging on the post

to keep from rattling in the sheets.

Going all through life without a story to her name,

she wants to join in mine,

but loyalty’s a strain.

Dangling from a string,

she keeps me entertained.

It’s vulgar;

her being candid and curious

makes it a game.

Freudian facts aside,

I’m really not to blame.

Really a lot to say.

I cut her hair to make her mine.

The way I saw her dance made me kiss her on her hand.

No, it’s fine.

Truthfully, she wanted me to lie.

Her boyfriend at the time

stuck with her for her shame

after reading George Sand

and brushing up a flame.

An ode to absent fathers

and their absent-minded offspring,

who too often mistake a quick fling for real things.

© 2010 Jean-Michel Brawand

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