Pam
Joe Cordaro

Brush off the pasted misery
that clings to your cool cheeks.
The blossoms of New York
have thorns pricking
a little blood at a time,
no sense in trying
to pick at the scars they leave.
The frustrating sorrow
will die with the
full moon’s reflection
in your Jade eyes.

I wish you could see:
the analgesic calm on your face,
while pressing your lips before you laugh.
God has made no mistake with you
Perfection is man’s lie.

You need not live
with guilt, the morality
of psychobabylonian preachers
nor label every encounter as
predator, daddy, mommy.
The coyotes, crazies and cowards
are just your exhalations
condensing on dirty city dust.

As for me I must
put a wrecking ball
to my castles.