Clay-footed god of things earthly,
your addictions to visceral romanticism
and cracking up,
soothe the loser in me.
At four in the morning,
the universe having failed to succumb to my command
after each bar room farce,
or one-too-many faux-pas
my hand slides the volume up a notch,
trailing itself still, through that river deep,
where a tearstained note called you "beautiful creep".
Field Commander Cohen,
on mornings I find myself inhabitant unknown,
searching for remedies in ripped-out pages,
plotting the points between now and then
every coordinate poses the question,
where is The Future or Marianne?
Yet, your growing old gracefully
brings me hope I can clean up my act,
as I swab wine stains from dusty album sleeves,
sweet messiah of bedsit-ridden artefacts.
I kiss my husband, tend my kids, and cross off the days
while you reap the fruits of commercial success,
date younger women, and sexualise grey.