by Richard Fein
"Cain's Lament" -- "Work Schedule"
Richard Fein has had poems published in numerous magazines including: Birmingham Poetry Review, Droplet Journal, Zuzu's Petals, Hollins Critic, Ellipsis, Roanoke Review, Parnassus Literary Review, Half Tones to Jubilee, and others.
After the blow he lay bleeding.
Helpless, he pleaded with his still open eyes.
I lorded over the Lord's favorite.
My green-raged lust finally was sated,
and my felonious wish granted.
Anger drained from me as freely as the blood from his skull.
I earned a heartbeat or two of peace.
I sealed his fate, not the Lord.
But I couldn't unseal it.
His arms weakened, his eyelids fluttered, his lips trembled.
My power weakened as his skin paled.
One last breath, an eternal exhalation,
and his lifeless body was completely mine,
my ultimate power over him.
But his spirit was beyond my reach.
I became a puppeteer pulling the strings of lifeless limbs.
I rubbed my sweaty forehead with his cloak
and was forever smeared in red.
My earnings were meager.
I ran from my granted wish,
ran to a hundred places,
assumed a dozen personas.
But his weakening arms always appear between my feet.
What is this unwelcome sight,
a striptease in reverse, a history of civilization,
Eden after the apple,
a microcosm of humanity's supreme melancholy?
The loss of the childlike feral in our bedroom.
Unabashed nakedness becomes opaque
behind wool, cotton and linen.
Hell, I'd sniff her butt like any mammal.
It's right here. But the alarm just rang,
and she's hauling it away from me
as she boldly struts to the window.
Her bare butt moons me and eclipses the sunrise.
Light silhouettes her soft curves.
She tosses her free swinging hair.
She turns to face me.
For one last moment an ape-woman displays before me,
as she moons the sun rising over the entire world.
Then I lose sight of her, fabric by fabric.
Her panties race up; her breasts jiggle into their cups.
Now she's fit for any public beach.
The rest follows the Monday morning mandate.
Bobby pins discipline her flowing hair, exposing
the sharpness of her cheeks and chin.
Those other cheeks now safely tucked away,
untouchable in the armor of a grey business suit.
Her breasts shielded by a starched shirt, jacket and narrow tie.
A knight of corporate combat clad in the pseudo masculine.
Ape-woman evolved to middle manager,
all by the time morning lost its golden hue.
Her curt farewell,
a peck on the cheek and a I've gotta run.
Off to the profit wars.
Pushed from the primeval to the proper.