by R.A. Allen
Who’s that knocking at this hour,
testing the deadbolt of my sleep?
Secret police or Latter-day Saints?
Survey taker or prize patrol?
Alimony skip tracers, I’m paid up.
Catholic guilt, inquire next door.
My Morpheus is an idle doorman,
allowing chimeras one and all:
internal revenue public nudity,
a soundless scream as I free fall,
pursued by math tests not completed,
through a ghoul-infested mall.
What I need is a vision of you,
loins slit-skirted in Lancôme black.
Wood chime bangles announce your presence.
You’ll wrap my heart in furs of Venus.
Subtle temptress let me love thee
and wake the morrow with virile pride.
R. A. Allen’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the New York Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, Pirene’s Fountain, The Recusant (UK), Pear Noir!, Word Riot, Dark Sky Magazine, and others. He lives in Memphis. More at http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/raallen