The Bus on Madison Still Hits Me Like a Truck

Some years ago I dated
a woman who's hair put
                                                  Raspberry Kool-Aid to shame
                                                                       Being just as sweet
Our jokes like a revolver
                                                 spun around - one of us
                                                                                             playing the match and the other
Kerosene kisses burning
                                                     through the late night hours
My drunken fits were
lit by blue moons
                                                                                Regardless of the sky
                                                                                 I was happy despite
                                                                                 all the pain I felt
Peace was foreign
to the both of us.
And I would take the
Hit for staying in love…

When new lovers came they
found it easy to twist her halo
                                                             on the horns she bore
And not knowing the difference
                                                          between saints and sinners
I fell pray to demons of bliss

Lighting my pipe and taking
swigs of vermillion wine
                                                                                  Blue was lost in clouds
                                                                                   of verdant smoke.
The years would prove themselves
an impassable channel --
                                                     Clicking remote switches
                                                      Till I found a suitable distance
                                                                                     between me and the programming
I was left with after years of
having gas lit beneath my nose

No longer do I don blue.
I don't stare at the sky, or the ocean.
No denim jeans, or Kool-aid
Not a mention of Picasso…

And never again                            you..

I don't even play the blues,
Because after all these years,
I've finally stopped finding
Your long cobalt hair
On all the things I own.