this veil of pity
was sewn from
mutual fabric

I craved its softening
gauze and wanted
to serve
its halo.

to believe you.

Pollyanna shit.

in your clasp
it was
subterfuge,

security
for your
sleight of hand

a hedge
against any
sudden

shifts in attention

that might damn you to
the plain
thick black shoes
of mediocrity

oh-fucking-well

trust,
as it turns out,
is a wind-up toy.

tension the spring
with measured caution,

or hail the
motionless cymbals
in the paws
of a sad,
evil monkey.

© Tom Watters  6/12/06