OK.
This next poem is called Wendy Hook and Pan
and it's really not a tribute to Peter Pan but to Wendy, so.
Well last boy, Tinder, cruel, demon
of disguise, touching something feminine
like the great Pirates who have given up hope not humor.
Heartless child caring for no one
but himself flaunts with curling lip at truth loss
to death December.
Exhausted by his combustible soul, forever burning dreams.
Old man in black and steel.
Sign under his crushed outsider's
cool that watches the light lick the edges of dawn.
His Syrian reserve what remains of an ever receding faith.
Losing one place is negligible.
Sustained by an ancient knowledge, we are still here.
Savvy old patron, ventriloquists,
self-satisfied, and despised.
He glimpses the ransacked remains
of a heart crying too late.
Homebound and protected the flawed guardian of memory
yearns for men long gone.
Enclosed spaces, she searches dry text
for a fervor that does not fade.
Renewed in time remaining, her reposed proceeds performance
on demand.
Naivete is revealed as the chill of common turbulence
wanting only the surprise of sensuality
to light her quiet smile.
Her honeymoon luggage lies in the middle distance.
This silent woman listens under bed clothes for fairies
and rose.