Spoke in the Wheel

Spoke in the Wheel

He’ll go on pretending,
like he’s not a spoke in her wheel,
the fish on the line.

She’ll call a spade a spade,
with the love of a nun,
the soul of a maid.

The sun will come up,
showing its russet wings.
The eloquence by which she speaks,
layers of a farce,
wrapped up in shame--
or maybe grief?

The earth will cast its virginal son,
with the eyes of a priest,
the sin of the Lord.

No matter what you call yourself now;
you’ll always be the spoke in her wheel,
the fish on the line.