my personal blues

The bunch of keys you gave me
is a spider running away
through my fingers
”unless the lock to your door
is big enough for my ego
or a bumblebee winging its way
through for the nectar, or
an icy wind that still carries
a crying seagull.
And who wants to make it work,
anyway, a melody luring me in
like a thorny rosebush
or a dark sky that hurts me”

I never hear from you,
in far-away Canada
until I drop my glass,
when your call comes through,
me going to bed and you
just waking up,
your voice, a come-on,
even if you sit on the loo,
even if I start laughing
at photos of a funeral.