Leonard Cohen

(after Waiting for Marianne)

Women

in your poems

hold power

like pegs

over socks

on a windy day –

limited

but vice-like.

You

self-deprecate

cunningly –

just a humble sock

right?

A humble sock

jam-bloody-packed

with

that heady smell

of sunlight,

detergent

and the day’s breezes.

I want that sock

on my pillow

to sniff immoderately.

A peg, you say?

Happily.

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