Cliche for a Tuesday Morning

by Eric Farwell

Many of us have used the beleaguered
Helen of Troy, tired and stoic,
To gesso poems with a coat of “deeper”
Meaning.

We’ve watched her walk half-drunk
In the dead of night from one line-end
To another, sashaying in dusky sandals,
Olive breasts bouncing toward allusion
Or white-male commentary on female
Weariness.

Helen never shows up at the shit hole
Bar in small town America, still deadly
Gorgeous in her thickened skin.
She can’t just play pool or darts
In the background of a small poem;
She’s always having to put her beer
Down, rub her eyes, and step into
Cold alleys to be bigger than herself.

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