Fan Blows hard; computer hums.
The Sony numbers slide along
As, with raw spite, tomorrow comes.
But no one lies where she belongs;
She's with her Teddy, rich with age.
Here! Am I jealous? Am I wrong?
His stomach's torn, with no rib cage;
His limbs hang on with waning drive;
His eyes are glazed, worn down, but sage.
So she may squeeze that bear, make live
His gentle love and loyalty,
And I'll sleep here, but will not thrive.
But tomorrow, she's mine again.
And Teddy will form a poem in his head,
A poem quite like this one.
He would love to jot it down for
Old Times sake, but his arms...
Aren't quite what they used to be.
So Teddy, my friend, I appologize
For taking her...
But I'm NOT giving her back.
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