They belong in the wood boiler
those poems,
about the way the young lover
took me by surprise
even though it was planned
from my first gasp,
and the way I was a madam
in the whorehouse
that I never even saw
or knew the way to.
It is not fun,
but perhaps necessary
to let the ego run around the room
for what might be the last time,
watch the way it preens
or has a tantrum of unrequited need
that it calls love,
because it has no other word.
There is a hot spring nearby
that has a source
and runs back into the earth
so it is not trapped
but fully fluid.
My pretty ego,
my Gollum in disguise,
my crying child
and frustrated mid-life lover
intermingled
can feel the draw of warmth
by the water’s edge
and are getting ready
but not gracefully
to enter.