The month of fools and suicides,
of razor blades and sleeping pills
of fleeting feet on window-sills
that leave despair to tap inside
and dive towards the daffodils.
I didn't miss you;
you thought I would
with every tissue.
I didn't miss you;
there was no issue -
my aim being good.
I didn't miss you;
you thought I would.
The Food Critic’s Husband
Drag me downtown for some quasi-inedible
‘entrées as art’ on an oversized plate.
Bray with the zeroes who’re halving their capers
and sizing their sushi for content and weight.
Meanwhile I’ll dream of a comely Jocasta
who’s lusting for buttery pastries and sex;
coupling, we’ll slither like eels in hot jelly
and come with a hymn sung to Feedipus Rex!

Patricia Sims

If you have any comments to make about her poems, Patricia Sims would be pleased to hear from you.

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