In Commiseration

Poetry you suffer
from being caressed by bumbling fingers
unaware/uncaring of the skilled lovers in your past

never seeing how you recoil into a dark shell
your delicate feathers tightly bunched

Never seeing you pray
for the marauding night to end

Poetry you suffer
at the hands of pimps

and yet you blush
to the delight of your true loves

when they come across your lifeless form

at nameless brothels