Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Incubus

comes on Tuesday
to dine with me on brie and bread.
Not even a letter from my ex-wife
could free me from my engagement.
I can feel doom
sailboating down upon me
when the doorbell rings.
The incubus reads to me from the New Yorker
while I sit at the piano
playing Brahms.
It is always the same discussion.
My bellybutton propagandized
like a clock that never stops.
I weigh in on
the library,
the cathedrals,
CBGB’s,
the poem the chicken couldn’t use.
We are most decent
sometimes
he and I,
locked in our green room
waiting
to begin.