Thomas Griffin

It doesn’t matter that I know
when the clock swears midnight that
morning and its burning glory are far away,
oh, help me hide my embarrassed face here
in these shadows chasing the lamplight
back into that pale round bulb,
something untamed in me wants to love you
even though you’re a full page advertisement
of indecision and loving anybody right now
calls for a meeting of the planning commission.
Is it timing? Did I step forward before the bell rang?
And what am I supposed to do
with these baskets of wild orchids?