Trite and Cheap

Anna, Anna, Anna
is the only name I can think of
as I press my sweat-covered body
on top of (is it?) Arienette.
With my eyes closed tightly,
all imagination becomes reality:
short, brown hair
easily becomes long and blond.
This creaking matress of sin
transforms into long summer nights
listening to crickets whisper.
Overpowering, sickening perfume
warps into the familiar scent
of fresh-grown cucumbers.
I am not in this foreign hotel anymore;
I am back where I should be,
at Spring Street, in Connecticut.
And as we moan on like banshees,
each quiver reminds me
of the steel shovel splitting
the fresh cemetery dirt into pieces
so long ago.
Soon we are finished here,
and I jump back to reality.
Putting my clothes back on,
I know I should feel ecstatic;
yet all I am feeling
is trite and cheap:
so tired of eating away at nostalgia,
just like the worms
are doing to my love's body right now.


~J.V.Harker~
~28 December 2008~