POEM OF THE DAY
LADY FAIR
A raindrop. A bullet.
The ghost of a kiss
grazes my lip.
The babe hits a home run;
a lifetime
of State Fair midway thrills
lands like a two-by-four up side my head.
Thwack.
Neon stars spill
from her black velvet sack.
The tilt-o-whirl shrills.
It is crowtime, the month of Sundays.
I am in love with the odors
of the fair
the way a pyromaniac is in love
with the smell
of lighter fluid
poured over a sleeping wino.
I walk among her prey
tasting the air
heavy with the spice
of the black orchids
she wears in her hair.
I cross her palm
and the Madame Fate’s
whisper comes,
La Belle Dame sans Merci hath thee in thrall.
Dana Pattillo
Note: The last line is of course from the Keats poem La Belle Dame sans Merci.
PoD 101
1:20:54 PM 
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