the presence of a woman

dirty black magic is the only way I may succeed
there's nothing in the attic,
nothing worthy of discovery
the brown recluse has again withdrawn
into introspective subjective hell
the beetles and the centipedes
are preying on the food that fell
spellbound by the bookcases,
I'm stunned into running
it's still only 6:00 a.m. but I can't sleep
put a firecracker in my craw
and hear me croak just like a frog
the cruel children cunning
I wish I hadn't smelled her presence
with my only sense
I wish I hadn't dove this deep
echoes of my name called out
by long estranged offspring
I once was allowed to call my own
turns out I'm not as much a father figure
as I thought I could have grown
into my father's shoes and quit cold turkey
just like that
I writhe and startle easily
institutionalized by handicap
in this unnatural habitat
where my habit lapses
eager to pen my epitaph
rabid with many losses, poisoned blood
a septicemic synapse
exposing tired nerves
the spilled milk is now a army of ants
marching to make compost
of the tired host
who was nothing more than a living ghost
and gave his pittance freely
though, I know they'll miss the money most
just a faded photograph stashed in a box
on a shelf
in the closet
reliving all the last decade's pain
what was once the family tape
press rewind and pause it
even living in the moment
will one day lead to death
as positive as I could have been
the same results,
control the experiment
I can still smell her scent
though she's light years away
I can still hear her voice
so stern and rasp on moving day
the weeds have grown up through the trees
and slipped in through the windows
there's no turning you out, you devastating
lovely leaping black widow