SAINT OF PERPETUAL SORROW*

Call me a spent orange in the dirt, a primer-gray birdhouse in the tree

or a new world thesaurus but not over the telephone.
Call me a nearly empty water glass, a ceramic kitten toppled on the sill
or call me a sad and broken man but do not call tonight.
Call me a celebration of new democracy, a vest of explosives beside you
or the state of the union address, marked return to sender.
Call me an unfinished word puzzle, a dull pencil or doldrums
but do not call to lure me from the tar.
Call me a despot having gone too fast, a sickly poinsettia in the sink
or a failed plan for two but no, not etc.
Call me a conduit for perpetual sorrow, an ill mannered house finch
or pruned rosebushes but not in the receiver again.
Call me an empirical fault, call me tomorrow or don’t bother using
words at all but do not from the other end just breathe.

*the title was taken from Gina Myers' poem "House"