Dear Miss Rigby, Poem by Joseph DeMarco

The Beatles are frozen underground
Like some sort of Prehistoric Cave Drawing,
Art Incognito.
The Ground is Hard
And my Fingernails break.
The Clay inbeded in my DNA,
Some part of me is Buried
Should I attend my own Funeral?
Nobody Else seems to be going
The Eulogy is short and unsweetened,
There are no Tears.
It hasn't rained in days,
I long for the tropics,
Where things make more sense.
I long for that girl
from long ago
who was never anything
but beauty personfied.
The butterfly on her lower hip
flutters and is perhaps my heart.
Desire is an impossible suspect,
My fingers slide under her yellow underwear
Past the Tattoo which dances,
Subtly stopping to admire the colors of her wings
The Moment is perfect.
The Cold outside in perfect contrast
To the warmth I feel for her,
beneath the Reptilean Skin
I crawl looking for this moment
Because that is all I can do
To pass the time