In a Gale of Wind

Oh Rosie, run beyond the slope
before my blood runs cold!
I feel that clammy, wraithlike rope
assert its faithful hold!

Her feet fly faster than a hare
away from Devil’s ditch,
for scents of flesh float in the air
as Johnny’s eyelids twitch.

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Dinah’s Day

Salt-smudged mud, square-toed Oxfords;
hard leather heels flap like blackbirds
through a New York morning swarm.
Time don’t wait for crusty-eyed snails
full of midnight gin and tipsy tales.
That green-fisted fiend snaps at her back,
whatever the score, he’ll beg for more.
Those chords don’t tweet for love alone,
but for now, she owns the throne.