Three Poems

The Diva

D was done with it
and it meant everything.
Done with demands, denial,
the drama of hope.
D hadn’t lived all his decades for nothing.
Devotion? Spare me, D thought.
D was closing doors. Click-click - done.
When they were all shut behind him,
there opened a corridor of woods.

And another thing I’m done with,
D declared to himself, Sex.
I’m done with the dreck of it.
The minute he said that he felt both relief
and dismay.
Damn, I’m disoriented, he thought.
It was dusk in the dell.
Nothing to do but continue
through the dimming light.
...