Last Leg, Limping Poem by Pasha Satara

We are on our last leg, limping.
Nobody smiles and it would take a step ladder
to see into your eyes.
We've trades hearts for spades
and dug a grave,
shallow,
but deep enough to cover the music.

I can't lay on my back for 48 hours,
not even with my legs spread,
and all that's left of you is your right hand
and a hard on.

The wine bottles are empty
and the glass is a mottled green that's given up.
Your flesh is the color of dead salmon
but not as firm.

We are like bananas
that have been kept in a paper bag too long,
splotchy and bruised
but soft to each other,
and still rubbing.
We know where the sores are
and that's where we pinch.

I look, and then I look away,
tell you that I love you one more time
and pat your head,
but I am not as brave as a magnifying glass,
and we both need crutches.